15*1 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AHD  SOHG. 


ILLUSTRATED 


POETRY  AND  SONG 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE 


BEST  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETS, 


EDITED    BY 


CHARLES  BELFORD. 


With  Forty  Full 


Illustrations  by  Dalziel,  Lumley,  Mclntyre,  Cutts, 
and  others. 


CHICAGO: 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO, 

1882. 


COPYRIGHTED 

iSSo. 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO. 


PRINTED  AND  BOUND  BY  DONAHUE  &  HENVEBERRY. 


Electrotyped  By  Blonigrcn  Bros.  &  Co.  Chicigo. 


LA  BELLE  AMERICAINE, 

THE  USEFUL  PLOW, 

MY  VALENTINE, 

THE  WISHING-WELL, 

AN  EVENING  IN  SPRING, 

COSTUME, 

CAUGHT, 

CONSTANCY, 

THE  MOURNER, 

CHASTELARD  TO  MARY  STUART, 

RED  AND  WHITE, 

SWEET  SUMMER  TIME, 

BLIGHTED  LOVE, 

WE  PARTED  IN  SILENCE, 

AMID  THE  ROSES, 

MARY  MORISON, 

MAY, 

THE  SHIPWRECK, 

AFTER  THE  SEASON, 

THE  BROOKLET, 

PLAYING  WITH  LOVE, 

THE  WELCOME, 


It 

NGRAVEU    BY 

PAGE 

Dalziel 

16 

Mclntyre 

21 

Pearson 

3( 

Buck  man 

3; 

-    Mclntyre 

3< 

Dalziel 

43 

Pearson 

51 

Wilson 

55 

Dalziel 

63 

Harral 

69 

Cutts 

77 

-      Cutts 

Si 

Lumley 

87 

Dalziel 

91 

Cutts 

95 

Harral 

99 

Swain 

103 

Mclntyre 

107 

Walmsley 

112 

Swain 

"5 

Dalziel 

119 

-      Cutts 

123 

2210198 


L  IS  T  OF    IL  I.  US  TRA  TfOXS. 


ENGRAVED  1JY 

PAC;I;. 

ONCE  AND  FOR  AYE 

Holliclge 

127 

THE  IVY  MAIDEN, 

Dalziel 

131 

THEY  COME,  THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS, 

Cutts 

'35 

"YES."                -                                                         ... 

Buck  man 

139 

ABSENCE, 

Pearson 

'43 

SAPPHO  AND  PHAON, 

Walmsley 

147 

FAIRER  THAN  THEE, 

Cutts 

151 

AN  AUTUMN  IDYL, 

Mclntyre 

*55! 

AT  A  MODERN  SHRINE, 

Harral 

!59 

BY  THE  LILIES, 

Lumley 

163 

A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION', 

Wagner 

169 

FLEURETTE,                                         ... 

Pearson 

'75 

CHRISTINE, 

Swaine 

179 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE, 

Dalziel 

187 

ABOU  BEX  ADHEM, 

ABSENCE, 

AFTER  THE  SEASON, 

AMID  THE  ROSES, 

AN  AUTUMN  IDYL, 

ANNIE  LAURIE, 

AULD  LANG  SYNE, 

AUTUMN, 

AUTUMN  :  A  DIRGE, 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY, 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE, 

BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK, 

BELLS,  THE 

BLIGHTED  LOVE, 

BLOSSOMS, 

BROOKLET,  THE 

CAUGHT,     - 

CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG, 

CHILDREN, 

CHASTELARD  TO  MARY  STUART, 

CHILD  AND  T::E  WATCHER, 

CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE, 

CHRISTINE, 

COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE, 

CONSTANCY, 

COSTUME, 


PAGE. 

Leigh  Hunt  141 

Frances  Anne  Kemble  142 

Alfred  E.  T.  Watson  110 

Compton  Reade  93 

James  Thompson  153 

-     Anonymous  93 

Robert  Burns  20 

John  Keats  41 

Percy  B.  Shelley  41 

Lady  Barnard  68 

J.  G.  Whittier  35 

Wm.  Thackeray  129 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  65 

Lord  Strangford  86 

Robert  Herrick  18 

Sir  Robert  Grant  114 

Shakespeare  50 

Thomas  Moore  1:57 

Walter  Savage  Landor  19 

Guy  Roslyn  68 

Elizabeth  B.  Browning  98 

Alfred  Tennyson  105 

Walter  Savage  Landor  178 

Anonymous  31 

Anonymous  54 

Ben  Jon  son  42 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE- 

COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD,     - 

Alfred  Tennyson 

105 

DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS, 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge 

79 

DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN, 

William  Cowper 

58 

DOUBTING  HEART, 

-     Adelaide  Anne  Proctor 

36 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG, 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

31 

EVENING  STAR, 

Thomas  Campbell 

28 

EVENING  IN  SPRING, 

Lord  Byron 

38 

EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES,        .... 

John  Keats 

42 

EXCELSIOR,    - 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 

54 

EXCUSE,                                       ... 

Matthew  Arnold 

113 

FAIRY  SONG, 

John  Keats 

31 

FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY, 

Thomas  Hood 

121 

FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO, 

Charles  Lamb 

122 

FIDELITY, 

William  Wordsworth 

160 

FLEURETTE, 

Caroline  E.  S.  Norton 

174 

HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA*S  HALL,      - 

Thomas  Moore 

31 

HOLLY  TREE, 

Robert  Southey 

161 

HUNTER'S  SONG, 

Barry  Cornwall 

37 

HYMN, 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge 

85 

I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER,    - 

Thomas  Hood 

27 

IVRY, 

Lord  Macaulay 

75 

IVY  GREEN,       -                        - 

Charles  Dickens 

93 

IVY  MAIDEN, 

B.  M.  Ranking 

130 

JENNY  KISSED  ME, 

Leigh  Hunt 

113 

KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES, 

William  Wordsworth 

94 

LA  BELLE  AMERICANE, 

George  D.  Prentice 

17 

LADY  AT  SEA, 

Thomas  Moore 

66 

LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  IN  NEW 

ENGLAND,             Felicia  Hemans 

113 

LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT, 

Lady  Dufferin 

117 

LILIES,  BY  THK 

Anonymous 

161 

LOCHINVAR, 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

101 

LOVE,     -                        - 

Charles  Swain 

177 

LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY, 

Percy  B.  Shelley 

102 

LOCKSLEY  HALL, 

Alfred  Tennyson 

178 

LULLABY, 

Alfred  Ten  nv  son 

19 

COiVTENTS. 


v 

PAGE. 

MAY  QUEEN, 

Alfred  Tennyson 

23 

MAUD  MUELLER, 

J.  G.  Whittier 

80 

MARY  MORISON, 

Robert  Burns 

98 

MAY, 

Leigh  Hunt 

102 

MATCH,  A 

Algernon  C.  Swinburne 

153 

MEMORY, 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

190 

MINSTREL,  THE 

Goethe 

138 

MISTLETOE  BOUGH, 

Thomas  H.  Bay  ley 

185 

MODERN  SHRINE, 

E.  J.  M. 

1.-.7 

MOTHER'S  HOPE, 

Laman  Blanchard 

173 

MOTHER'S  HEART, 

Caroline  Norton 

174 

MOTHER'S  LAST  SONG, 

Barry  Cornwall 

58 

MOURNER,  THE 

George  Crabbe 

61 

MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL, 

Wm.  Thackeray 

133 

MY  VALENTINE, 

H.  Frith 

28 

MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLAND, 

Robert  Burns 

37 

MY  LOVE, 

James  Russell  Lowell 

102 

MY  HARVEST  EVE, 

Rita 

167 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET, 

John  Keats 

19 

^ONCE  AND  FOR  AYE, 

Anonymous 

126 

PARTED  IN  SILENCE, 

Mrs.  Crawford 

90 

PAINTER'S  WALK,  THE 

A.  L.  B. 

162 

PHANTOM,  THE 

Bayard  Taylor 

137 

PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN, 

Robert  Browning 

71 

PLAYING  WITH  LOVE, 

Guy  Roslyn 

118 

PROUD  MASSIE  is  IN  THE  WOOD, 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

32 

RECEIPT  FOR  SALAD, 

Sydney  Smith 

19 

RED  AND  WHITE, 

B.  M.  Ranking 

76 

ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALE, 

Anonymous 

146 

SAPPHO  AND  PHAON, 

-     Clement  W.  Scott 

146 

SHIPWRECK, 

William  Falconer 

106 

SONG  OF  THE  BROOK, 

Alfred  Tennyson 

18 

SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT, 

Thomas  Hood 

54 

SONG  OF  THE  WINDS, 

Geo.  Darley 

192 

SONG, 

Ben  Jonson 

141 

CONTENTS. 


SONG, 

SONNETS, 

SONNETS, 

SOFTLY  Woo  AWAY  HER  BREATH,    - 

SPRING, 

STEAMBOAT,  THE 

SWEET  SUMMER  TIME, 

TAKE,  OH!  TAKE  THOSE  LIPS  AWAY, 

TAM  O'SHANTER, 

THANATOPSIS,    - 

THE  RAVEN, 

THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIR, 

THE  WISHING  WELL, 

THEY  COME!  THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS, 

THOSE  EVENING  BELLS, 

'Tis  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER, 

To  PERILLA, 

USEFUL  PLOW, 

VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH, 

VIOLETS, 

VIRTUE,        ..... 

WELCOME,  THE  .'-..-. 

*'  WHEN  THE  HOUNDS  OF  SPRING," 

WIDOW  MACHREE,       .... 

WOMAN'S  QUESTION,  A 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE, 

YES, 


PAGfc. 

Percy  B.  Shelley  145 

John  Milton  20 

Shakespeare  171 

Barry  Cornwall  23 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  23 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  142 

William  Howitt  80 

Shakespeare  20 

-      Robert  Burns  80 

William  C.  Bryant  57 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  190 

Walter  Savage  Landor  189 

C.  L.  Young  32 

William  Motherwell  134 

Thomas  Moore  66 

Thomas  Moore  42 

Robert  Herrick  189 

Anonymous  20 

Henry  W.  Longfellow  142 

Robert  Herrick  18 

• 

George  Herbert  145 

Thomas  Davis  122 

A.  C.  Swinburne  36 

Samuel  Lover  109 

Adelaide  A.  Proctor  168 

Geo.  P.  Morris  186 

Anonvmous  138 


LA    BELLE    AMERICAINE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


LA   BELLE    AMERICAINE. 

'T  is  very  sweet  to  sit  and  gaze,  dear  girl, 

On  thy  fair  face, 
As  glowing  as  a  crimson-shaded  pearl 

Or  lighted  vase. 

Young   beauty    brightens,  like   an    Eden- 
dream, 

On  thy  pure  cheek, 
And  jov  and  love  from  every  feature  seem 

To  breathe  and  speak. 

I  love  to  kneel  in  worship  to  the  Sprite 

In  thy  dark  eyes, 

Dark  as  the  fabled   Stygian   stream,  and 
bright 

As  Paradise. 
Not  oft  the  radiance  of  such  eyes  is  given 

To  light  our  way; 
And  oh,  to  me  there's  not  a  star  in  heaven 

So  bright  as  they. 

I've  known  thee  but  a  few  brief  days,  and 

yet 

Thou  wilt  remain 
An  image  of  undying  beauty,  set 

On  heart  and  brain. 
Each  thought,  each  dream  of  thee,  fair  girl, 

will  seem 
Mid  toil  and  strife, 

A  pure  white  lily  swaying  on  the  stream 
Of  this  dark  life. 


The  months  will  pass,  the  flowers  will  soon 

be  bright 
On  plain  and  hill, 
And  the  young  birds,  with  voices  of  delight, 

The  woodlands  fill; 
Oh,  in  that  fairy  season  thou  shall  be — 

'Mid  budding  bowers — 
My  heart's  young  May-queen,  and  I'll  twine 

for  thee 
The  Heart's  wild  flowers. 

GEO.  D.  PRENTICE. 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern : 

I  make  a  sudden  sallv 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges; 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


i8 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SO.V(,\ 


I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles: 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  tallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow  , 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows, 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmer  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  jpin  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


TO  VIOLETS. 

WELCOME,  maids  of  honor, 

You  do  bring 

In  the  Spring, 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 
•  Fresh  and  fair; 
Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

Y'  are  the  Maiden  Posies, 

And  so  graced, 

To  be  placed, 
'Fore  damask  roses. 

Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By  and  by 

Ye  do  lie, 
Poor  girls,  neglected. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

FAIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What!  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night? 

'T  is  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave; 
And,  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  vou  awhile,  they  glide, 
Into  the  grave. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


1L  L  US  TRA  TED  POE  TR  T  AND  SONG. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND 
CRICKET. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot 

sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From    hedge    to    hedge    among  the  new" 

mown  mead. 
That   is   the   grasshopper's — he   takes   the 

lead 

In   summer  luxury, — he  has   never  done 
With    his    delights  ;    for,    when    tired  out 

with  fun, 
He  rests  at    ease   beneath   some    pleasant 

weed. 

The  poetrv  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has    wrought   a   silence,    from    the    stove 

there  shrills 

The    Cricket's    song   in    warmth    increas- 
ing ever, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The    Grasshopper's    among    some    grassy 

hills. 

TOHN  KEATS. 


LULLABY. 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Win*d  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go  ; 
Come  from  the  dying  moon  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While    my    little    one,    while    my    pretty 
one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest; 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon. 
Rest,  rest  on  mother's  breast; 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon. 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest; 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  mv  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


CHILDREN. 

CHILDREN  are  what  the  mothers  are. 
No  fondest  father's  fondest  care 
Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heart 
As  those  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  upon 
The  cradle  of  a  sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 

A  father  near  him  on  his  knee, 

Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 

The  mother  in  his  future  face; 

But 't  is  to  her  alone  uprise 

His  wakening  arms;  to  her  those  eyes 

Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


A  RECEIPT  FOR  SALAD. 

To  make  this  condiment  your  poet  begs 
The    pounded    yellow  of  two  hard-boiled 

eggs; 

Two  boiled  potatoes,  passed  through  kitch- 
en sieve, 

Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give; 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 
And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole; 
Of  mordent  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 
Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  too  soon; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 
To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt; 
Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca 

crown, 
And  twice    with    vinegar,    procured    from 

town ; 

And  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 
A  magic  soupcon  of  anchovy  sauce. 
Oh,  green  and  glorious  !     Oh,  herbaceous 

treat! 

'Twould  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat; 
Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl; 
Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  Fate  cannot  harm  me, —  I  have  dined 
to-day." 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


ILLUSTRATED  POE'J ID'  AX D 


THE  USEFUL  PLOW. 

A  COUNTRY  life  is  sweet, 

In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 
To  walk  in  the  air  how  pleasant  and  fair! 

In  everv  field  of  wheat, 
The  fairest  of  flowers  adorning  the  bowers, 

And  every  meadow's  brow ; 
So  that,  I  say,  no  courtier  m::y 
Compare  with  them  who  clothe  in  gray, 

And  follow  the  useful  plow. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark, 

And  labor  till  almost  dark, 
Then,  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to 
sleep, 

While  every  pleasant  park 
Next  morning  is  ringing  with  the  birds 
that  are  singing 

On  each  green,  tender  bough. 
With  what  content  and  merriment 
Their  days  are  spent,  whose  minds  are  bent 

To  follow  the  useful  plow! 

ANONYMOUS. 


TAKE,  OH!  TAKE  THOSE  LIPS 
AWAY. 

TAKE,  oh!  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn! 

But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Seals  of  love,  though  sealed  in  vain. 


Hide,  oh!  hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears. 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

SHAKESPEARE  and  JOHN  FLETCHER. 


SONNETS 

ON  HIS  BEING  ARRIVED  TO    THE  AGE  OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How   soon   hath   time,  the  subtle  thief  of 

youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twen- 
tieth year! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 

showeth. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 

truth, 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near: 
And   inward    ripeness   doth    much    Ic--^ 

appear 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  in- 

du'th. 

Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which  time  leads  me,  and  the  will 

of  heaven : 

All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  task-master's  eye. 
JOHN  MILTON. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 


SHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  inin'? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  days  o'  lang  sync? 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  svne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne! 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowan>  tine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin  auld  lang  svne. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


We  t\va  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 


And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  take  a  right  guid  \\ille-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne! 


And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine: 
And  we'll  take  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


SPRING. 

Now  the  lusty  Spring  is  seen; 

Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue, 

Daintily  invite  the  view. 
Everywhere,  on  every  green, 
Roses  blushing  as  they  blow, 

And  enticing  men  to  pull ; 
Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow; 
Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full — 

All  love's  emblems,  and  all  crv : 

Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die! 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER 
BREATH. 

SOFTLY  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  mournful,  murmering  life! 


She  hath  seen  her  happy  day — 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom; 

Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away, 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  ol  the  skies — sweet  love! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth: 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore — 
For  ever — evermore ! 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow'll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 
the  glad  new-year — 

Of  all  the  glad  new-year,  mother,  the  mad- 
dest, merriest  day ; 

For  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


There's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say, 

but  none  so  bright  as  mine; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate 

and  Caroline; 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the 

land,  they  say ; 
So  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I 

shall  never  wake, 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud,  when  the  day 

begins  to  break; 
But  I   must  gather  knots  of  flowers  and 

buds,  and  garlands  gay; 
For  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


ILLUSTRATED  POET  Jit'  A. YD  SONCi. 


As  I  came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye 

should  I  see, 
But  Robin  leaning  013  the  bridge  beneath 

the  ha/el -tree? 
He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I 

gave  him  yesterday, — 
But  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


He  thought  I   was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I 

was  all  in  white; 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a 

flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not 

what  they  say, 
For  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love — but  that 

can  never  be ; 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — 

what  is  that  to  me? 
There's  many  a  bolder  lad'll  woo  me  any 

summer  day ; 
And  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to 

the  green, 
And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me 

made  the  queen ; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  '11  come 

from  far  away ; 
And   I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


The    honeysuckle    round    the    porch    has 

woven  its  wavy  bowers, 
And    by    the    meadow- trenches   blow   the 

faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like 

fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray ; 
And  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


The    night- winds    come    and    go,    mother, 

upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to 

brighten  as  they  pass; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole 

of  the  livelong  day ; 
And  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


All  the  valley,  mother,  11  be  fresh  and  green 
and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over 
all  the  hill. 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  '11  mer- 
rily glance  and  play, 

For  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 
me  early,  mother  dear, 

To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 
the  glad  new-year: 

To-morrow  '11  be  of  all  the  year  the  mad- 
dest, merriest  day, 

For  I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I'm  to  be  queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW  YEAR  S  EVE. 


IF  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call    me 

early,  mother  dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 

new-year. 

It  is  the  last  new  year  that  I  shall  ever  see — 
Then  you  may   lay  me  low  i'  the  mould, 

and  think  no  more  of  me. 


To-night    I   saw    the  sun  set — he  set  and 

left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and 

all  my  peace  of  mind; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And  the  new    year's   coming   up,    mother; 

but  I  shall  never  see 
The    blossom    on   the  blackthorn,  the  leaf 

upon  the  tree. 

in.    . 
Last  Mav    we  made  a  crown  of   flowers; 

we  had  a  merry  day — 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they 

made  me  queen  of  May ; 
And   we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and 

in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till    Charles's  Wain  came    out  above  the 

tall  white  chimney-tops. 


There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills — the 

frost  is  on  the  pane ; 
1  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come 

again. 
I   wish   the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun 

come  out  on  high — 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I 

die. 


The  building  rook  '11  craw  from  the  windy 

tall  elm  tree, 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow 

lea, 
And  the  swallow  '11  come  back  again  with 

summer  o'er  the  wave, 
But    I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the 

mouldering  grave. 


Upon  the  chancel -casement,  and  upon  that 

grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early,   early    morning  the  summer 

sun  'll  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm 

upon  the  hill — 
When  you  are   warm-asleep,   mother,  and 

all  the  world  is  still. 


When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  be- 
neath the  waning  light 

You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray 
fields  at  night; 


When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer 

airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and 

the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 


You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath 

the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you  '11    come  sometimes  and  see  me 

where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall    not   forget   you,    mother;    I    shall 

hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long 

and  pleasant  grass. 


I  nave  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll 

forgive  me  now ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my 

cheek  and  brow ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your 

grief  be  wild; 
You   should    not    fret  for  me,    mother, — 

you  have  another  child. 


If  I  can,  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from  out 

my  resting  place; 
Though  you  '11  not  see  me  mother,  I  shall 

look  upon  your  face; 
Though  I  cannot  speak   a   word,    I    shall 

hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often   with  .  you  when  you 

think  I'm  far  away. 


Good-night!  good-night!  when  I  have  said 

good -night  for  evermore, 
And   you    see    me   carried   out   from    the 

threshold  of  the  door, 
Don't  let  Erne  come   to   see   me    till  my 

grave  be  growing  green — 
She  '11  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I 

have  been. 

XII. 

She  '11  find  my  garden  tools  upon  the  gran- 
ary floor. 

Let  her  take  'em — they  are  hers ;  I  shall 
never  garden  more. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


But  tell  her,  -when  I'm   gone,   to  train  the 

rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor  window,  and  the  box  of 

mignonette. 


Good-night,  sweet  mother!  Call  me  be- 
fore the  day  is  born. 

All  night  1  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at 
morn ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 
new-year — 

So,  if  you're  waking,  'call  me,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 


I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet 

alive  I  am ; 
And  in   the    fields   all    round    I    hear   the 

bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning 

of  the  year! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now 

the  violet's  here. 


Oh  sweet  is  the   new   violet,  that   comes 

beneath  the  skies; 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to 

me  that  cannot  rise; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the 

flowers  that  blow ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life,  to  me 

that  longs  to  go. 


It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave 

the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay ;  and  yet, 

His  will  be  done! 
But  still  I  think  it  can  't  be  long  before  I 

find  release; 
And   that  good   man  the  clergyman,  has 

told  me  words  of  peace. 


Oh  blessings  on  his  kindlv  voice,  and  on 

his  silver  hair! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until 

he  meet  me  there ! 
Oh  blessings  on  Tiis  kindly  heart  and  on 

his  silver  head! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt 

beside  mv  bed. 


He  showed  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught 

me  all  the  sin; 
Now,    though    my    lamp   was  lighted  late 

there's  One  will  let  me  in. 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  it 

that  could  be; 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that 

died  for  me. 


I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the 

death-watch  beat — 
There   came   a   sweeter   token    when    the 

night  and  morning  .meet; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your 

hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell 

the  sign. 


All   in    the  wild   March-morning   I  heard 

the  angels  call — 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the 

dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind 

began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 

them  call  my  soul. 


For  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you 

and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  vou  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I   no 

longer  here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both — 

and  so  1  felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music 
'     on  the  wind. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


27 


f  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened 

in  my  bed; 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I 

know  not  what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold 

of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music 

on  the  wind. 


But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I  said,  "It's 

not  for  them — it 's  mine ;  " 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I 

take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside 

the  window-bars — 
Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven  and 

die  among;  the  stars. 


So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near;  I  trust  it 

is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul 

will  have  to  go. 
And    for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go 

to-dav ;  , 

But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when   I 

am  past  away. 


And   say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell 

him  not  to  fret; 
There  's  many  worthier  than  I  would  make 

him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have 

be^n  his  wife ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with 

my  desire  of  life. 


Oh  look!  *he  sun  begins  to  rise!  the  heav- 
ens ire  in  a  glow; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of 
them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and 
there  his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands 
than  mine. 


Oh  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that 

ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice  that  nov,-  is  speaking  may  be  he- 

vond  the  sun — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls 

and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan? 

why  make  we  such  ado? 


For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home, 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and 

Effie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon 

your  breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 

the  weary  are  at  rest. 

ALFRED  TEXXYSOX. 


I  REMEMBER,  1  REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 

He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  dav  ; 

But  now,  I  often  wished  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  a  way! 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lilv-cups — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 
The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  rmist  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow! 


ILLUSTRATED  POETPT  AND  AYJ.Yr;. 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  oft"  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

THOMAS  Hoon. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

STAR  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  't  is  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise, 
Whilst,  far  off,  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  ait, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven, 

By  absence,  from  the  heart. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


MY  VALENTINE. 

How,  prithee,  shall  I  woo  my  Love — 
My  Valentine? 

I>\   MISSIVE  sweet 
And  scented  as  the  airs  that  uove 
Around  her  bow'r 
At  evening  hour, 
And  vie  in  haste  to  kis>  her  feet; 


Or  with  FOND  HOPES — 

A^  rosv-hued  • 

As  my  Celia's  damask  cheek — 
When  with  blushes  scarce  subdued 

In  maiden  pride 

She  turns  aside 
Whene'er  my  love  I  would  outspeak ! 

With  RICHES — 

Golden  as  her  hair 

Where  envious  sunbeams  frequent  play, 
Tho'  fain,  uncertain  to  rest  where 

'Midst  locks  so  bright 

Their  borrow'd  light 
Must  die,  or  living  pass  away ! 

Or  woo  her  with  a  CORONET — 

Rare  jewels, 

Bright  as  her  pure  eyes, 

Which  peep  beneath  their  lashes  wet, 

In  coyest  fear 

Lest  love  appear 
To  claim  their  glances  for  his  prize. 

Or  suppliant,  her  PITY  move 
With  tears  for  my  forlorn  estate  ; 
Such  pity  near  akin  to  love. 

Ah,  happy  swain, 

Would  she  but  deign 
With  my  un worthiness  to  mate! 

No !     None  of  these  will  I  address 
To  her,  my  true-lov'd  Valentine! 
But  with  a  longing  tenderness 

I'll  seek  her  bow'r, 

At  twilight  hour, 
And  boldly  claim  to  call  her  mine! 

There  my  LOVE  alone  I  '11  plead, 

While  Faith  and  Truth  shall  witness  beai^ 

For  Honors,  Riches,  I  've  no  need, 

IJv  Cupid  arm  d 

I'll  rise  unhaimed 
From  stubborn  conflict  with  despair. 

And  tho'  no  word  to  me  she  sav, 
I  '11  know  bv  one  sv\eet,  tender  sign 
That  she  forever,  day  by  day, 

Thro'  good  and  ill 

Will  love  me  still, 
Mv  own  true-hearted  Valentine! 

H.  FRITI i. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


3* 


COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 
Gix  a  body  meet  a  body 

Cornin'  through  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Atnatig  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'c  in  vscl ' ; 
But  -'.'liaur  /its  hame,  or  -vhat  his  name, 

I  dinna  care  to  tell. 
Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  frae  the  town, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
A  man g-  the  train  there  is  a  szvatu 

I  dearly  lo'e  mysel '/  * 
But  -I'hattr  his  hame,  or  tv/iat  fris  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

ANONYMOUS. 


FAIRY  SONG. 

SUED  no  tear!  oh  shed  no  tear! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  vear. 
Weep  no  more!  oh  weep  no  more! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core, 
Dry  your  eyes!  oh  dry  your  eyes! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 

Shed  no  tear. 
Overhead !  look  overhead ! 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 
Look  up!  look  up!     I  flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  pomegranate  bough 
See  me!  't  is  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear!    oh  shed  no  tear! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu — I  fly — adieu ! 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue — 

Adieu,  adieu! 
JOHN  KEATS. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

THE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o  '-er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise,  . 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A 
MAD  DOG. 

GOOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song; 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 
When  e'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SOXC,. 


Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wandering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye : 
And  while  thev  swore  the  dog  was  mad 

Thev  swore  the  man  would  die. 

Cut  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied  : 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


•PROUD  M  AISIE  IS  IN  THE  WOOD. 

PROUD  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  robin  sits  on  the  bush 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
— "  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  trulv?  " 
— "The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"  The  glow-worm  o'er  grave,  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady !  " 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


THE  WISHING-WELL. 

WHAT!  you  are  come,  despite  your  boast 

You  are  not  superstitious? 
No  faith  in  fairies,  nor  in  ghosts, 

Nor  Wishing- Well?     Delicious 

I  know  you  better,  and  I  hide 

Within  the  hollow  oak  ; 
To  the  clear  spring  your  wish  confide — 

Nor  spring,  nor  I,  will  joke. 


I  sc'3  you've  culled  the  small  blue  flowei 

I  told  you  of  last  night; 
You  come,  too,  at  the  sunset  hour, 

Determined  to  be  right. 

You  fix  your  eves  upon  the  ground, 
Are  counting  nine  times  nine; 

My  mysteries  your  thought--  have  hound- 
Approach,  sweet  Geraldine. 

There,  now  upon  the  steps  you  stand. 

You  gaze  upon  the  wave, 
The  flowers  poised  within  your  hand. 

Why,  Geraldine,  how  grave! 

You  lightly  laughed  at  all  I  said 

About  the  mystic  spell, 
And  thrice  von  shook  vour  pretty  head 

Against  the  Wishing- Well. 

Some  stronger  faith  enthrals  you  now, 
Your  mirth  owns  some  eclipse; 

A  shade  of  thought  is  on  your  brow. 
No  smile  upon  your  lips. 

Your  face  reflected  thei*e  you  trace, 

And,  by  some  fancy's  freak, 
As  you  gaze  down  upon  your  face 

The  waters  seem  to  speak. 

"Hail!  fairest  form  of  womanhood 

That  we  have  ever  pressed 
On  summer  eve,  amid  the  wood, 

Upon  our  peaceful  breast. 

"  For  many  a  maid  has  lingered  here. 

And  all  her  secrets  told, 
And  troubled  us  with  lying  tear, 

While  wishing  but  for  gold. 

"And  gallant  youths  from  town  and  hall 

Have  given  us  their  trusi : 
But,  ah!  their  love  was  hollow  all, 

Another  name  for  lust. 

"  We  grant  no  wish  that  is  not  pure. 
No  hope  for  selfish  gain; 

We  love  no  love  that  can  't  endure- 
No  pleasure  void  of  pain. 

"And  now  thrice  welcome  we  bid  you; 

We  knosv  the  sacred  sign 
That  marks  a  maiden  pure  and  true, 

A-s  you  are  Geraldine! 


THK    WISHING    WELL. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


35 


"  So  drop  the  flower  from  your  hand, 

We  hold  it  fondly  given; 
Pause  but  one  moment  on  the  strand, 

And  breathe  vour  wish  to  Heaven." 

The  flower  falls!  the  Well  receives 

Your  gift — and,  also,  mine ; 
No  withered  buds;  no  Autumn  leaves — 

Bright  blossoms,  Geraldine. 

I  hold  your  hand — to  hold  your  heart 

Soon  in  the  marriage  spell ; 
And  thus  we  vow  no  more  to  part, 

Beside  the  Wishing- Well ! 

CHARLES  LAURENCE  YOUNG. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde; 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, 

Over  the  mountains,  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind ;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic- window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet, 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 


Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
1  le  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt!  " — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast; 
u  Fjref  » — Ol,t  blazed  the  rifle-blast 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  grey  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  grey  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!     March  on !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet- 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the, hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!   and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall'sbier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  freedom  and  union,  wave! 

Peace,  and  order,  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


ILLUSTRATED  POET  in'  .l.Y/)  SO.VC,. 


A  DOUBTING  HEART. 

WHERE  are  the  swallows  fled? 

Frozen  and  dead 
Perchance   upon  some  bleak  and   stormy 

shore 

O  doubting  heart! 
Far  over  purple  seas, 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease, 
The  balmy  southern  breeze 
To   bring   them   to  their  northern  homes 
once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die? 
Prisoned  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 

O  doubting  heart! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 
To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth? 

O  doubting  heart! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky 
That  soon,  for  spring  is  nigh, 
Shall  wake  the  Summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night; 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair  ? 

O  doubting  heart! 
The  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  v  oices  stir  the  air. 

ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 


"WHEN  THE  HOUNDS  OF  SPRING." 

WHEN  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces, 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 


And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assauged  for  Itvlus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces ; 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptving 

of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet! 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 

shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 
the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 

to  her, 
Fold   our   hands   round   her   knees  and 

cling? 
Oh  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 

spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 

spring! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  south-west  wind  and   the  west 
wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year 

flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oaf  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


37 


And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Mzenad  and  Bassarid ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  shading  her  eyes; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 

not  here; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 

deer. 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the 

North, 
The   birth-place   of  valor,    the   country  of 

worth ; 

Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 
Farewell   to  the  mountains  high   covered 

with  snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys 

below ; 
Farewell  to   the  forests  and  wild-hanging 

woods ; 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 
•  floods. 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 

not  here, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 

deer ; 
Chasing   the  wild  deer,  and   following  the 

roe, 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go- 
ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 
RISE!   Sleep  no  more!   'T is  a  noble  morn. 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn. 
And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten 

hound, 

Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  bv, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  skv ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady. —  >o,  ho! 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  a  Tartar's  bow. 
Hark,  hark  ' —  Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 
From  her  sleep  in  the  ivoods  and  the  stubble 

corn  ? 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 
The  merry,  szvee/  ring  of  the  hunters  horn. 

Now,  through  the  copse  where  the  fox  is 

found, 

And  over  the  stream  at  a  mighty  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go! 
Away ! — as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  his  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away, — away ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and — the  day  is  done. 
Hark,  hark !  —  What  sound  on  the  -wind  is 

borne ? 
'  T  is  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn  : 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 

The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 
Sound !     Sound  the  horn !    To  the  hunter 

good 

What 's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right   over   he   bounds,   as  the  wild  stag 

bounds. 
At    the   heels   of   his   swift,   sure,    silent, 

hounds, 

Oh,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack, 
When  once  he  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 
With   his    stirrups   short,   and    his    snaffle 

strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning 

song  ? 
Hark,  hark! — JVotv,  home!     and  dream    till 

morn 
Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn  ! 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 
Oh,  the  sound  of  all  sounds   is  the  hunter's 

horn  ! 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


AN  EVENING  IN  SPRING 

AVE  MARIA!  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 
That   heavenliest   hour  of  heaven  is  wor- 
thiest thee! 

Ave  Maria !  blessed  be  the  hour, 
The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I 

so  oft 

Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 

While  swung  the  deep  bell   in  the  distant 

tower 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred 
with  prayer. 

Ave  Maria!  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer!' 
Ave  Maria!  'tis  the  hour  of  love! 

Ave  Maria !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  thy  Son's  above! 

Ave  Maria!  O  that  face  so  fair 
Those  downcast  eyes   beneath  the  Al- 
mighty dove, — 

What  fMough  't  is  but  a  pictured  image — 
strike, — 

That  painting  is  no  idol, — 't  is  too  like. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight!  in  the  solitude 

Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which    bounds     Ravenna's     immemorial 

wood, 
Rooted  where   once   the    Adrian    wave 

flowed  o'er. 

To  where  the  last  Ca?sarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest;  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to 

me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and 
thee! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 
Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless 

song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and 

mine, 


And   vesper-bells  that  rose  the  boughs 

along; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 
His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the 

fair  throng, 
Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to 

fly 

From  a  true  lover, — shadowed  my  mind's 
eye. 

O  Hesperus!  thoubringestall  good  things — 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungrv  cheer. 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding 

wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlaboured 

steer ; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone 

clings, 
Whate'er  our   household   gods   protect  of 

dear, 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest : 
Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's 

breast. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts 

the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first 

day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are 

torn  apart; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  wav, 
(As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay); 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorfis? 
Ah!   surely    nothing   dies   but  something 
mourns.  LORD  BYRON. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

SEASOX  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun! 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With    fruit    the    vines  that    round    the 

thatcheaves  run — 

To  bend  with  apples  and  mossed  cottage 
trees, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core — 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 

shells 
With    a    sweet    kernel — to    set    budding, 

more 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until    they   think   warm    days  will  never 

cease. 
For   summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their 

clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes    whoever  seeks  abroad  may 

find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair   soft-lifted  by   the   winnowing 

wind ; 

Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while 

thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twin- 
ed flowers; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours 
by  hours. 

Where   are   the   songs    of   Spring?      Ay? 

where  are  they  ? 
Think  not  of  them — thou  hast  thy  music 

too: 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 

day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 

hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small   gnats 

mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 

dies; 
And    full-grown    lambs   loud   bleat   from 

hilly  bourn ;  • 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble 

soft 
The  red-breast   whistle-?  from  the  garden 

croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


AUTUMN— A  DIRGE. 

THE  warm  sun  is   failing;  the  bleak  wind 

is  wailing; 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing;  the  pale  flow- 
ers are  dying; 

And  the  Year 

On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in   shroud  of 
leaves  dead, 

Is  lying, 

Come,  months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May ; 
In  your  saddest  array 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepul- 
chre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling;  the  nipt  worm  is 

crawling; 

The   rivers   are   swelling;  the   thunder   is 
knelling 

For  the  Year; 

The    blithe   swallows   are  flown   and   the 
lizards  each  gone 

To  his  dwelling; 
Come,  months,  come  away ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on 
tear. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  Summer, 

Left  blooming  alone; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  ki*idred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem  : 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Go  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh!  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


COSTUME. 


STILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed, — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free, — 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  mine  heart. 

BEN  JONSON. 
ii. 

A  SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness: 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  fine  distraction ; 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Intrals  the  crimson  stomacher; 

A  cuff  neglectful,,  and  thereby 

Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly; 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat; 

A  careless  shoestring,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility, — 

Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The   hare   limped  trembling  through  the 

frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  headman's  fingers  while  he 

told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a 

death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  lecture,  while  his 

prayer  he  saith. 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees; 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to 

freeze, 

Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails; 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passed  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 

and  mails. 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden 

tongue 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve; 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake 

to  grieve. 


That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude 

soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 

wide, 


COSTUME. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


45 


From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 

rests, 
With    hair   blown    back,   and   wings   put 

crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

v. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The    brain,    new  stufted,    in    youth,    with 

triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away; 
And    turn,    sole-thoughted,    to    one   lady 

there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day, 

On  love,   and   winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly- 
care, 

As  she  had  heard  old   dames   full   many 
times  declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  de- 
light, 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 


Full  of  this  whim  .vas  thoughtful  Madeline; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard; her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high  dis- 
dain, 


But  she  saw  not;  her  heart  was  otherwhere; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 


She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless 

ayes, 
Anxiou*  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short; 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand;  she 

sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 


So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered   still.     Meantime   across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on 

fire 

For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and 

implores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline; 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  un- 
seen; 

Perchance    speak,   kneel,   touch,   kiss — in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in  ;  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel ; 
For  him,   those   chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes, 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage;  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 

soul. 


ILLUSTRATED  POET R  I'  AND  SONG. 


XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from 

this  place; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race! 


"  Get  hence !  get  hence !    there 's  dwarfish 

Hildebrand; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land; 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me !  flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away ! " — "Ah,  gossip  dear, 
We  're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair 

sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "Good  saints,  not  here, 

not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 

be  thy  bier." 


He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  muttered  "Well-a — well-a-day !" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  Oh,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  hoi)1  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 
piously." 


"St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 


And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays, 
To  venture  so.     It  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee  Porphyro! — St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night;  good  angels  her  deceive! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time 
to  grieve  " 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed   a    wondrous   riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 

told 
His   lady's   purpose;  and  he  scarce  could 

brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 

cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose, 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot;  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start; 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art! 
Sweet   lady,   let   her   pray   and  sleep  and 

dream 

"Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From   wicked   men  like  thee.     Go,  go!  I 

deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem." 


,l  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear ! ' 
Quo'th    Porphyro;   "Oh    may  I   ne'er  find 

grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 

prayer, 

If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face; 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


47 


Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,    with   horrid   shout,   my   foemen's 

ears, 
And   beard   them,   though   they   be  more 

fanged  than  wolves  and  bears." 


"  Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard 

thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
Whose   prayers   for  thee,  each  morn  and 

evening, 
Were  never  missed."    Thus  plaining  doth 

she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 

woe. 


Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And    win    perhaps   that    night  a   peerless 

bride; 

While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And   pale  enchantment  held   her  sleepy- 
eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  mon- 
strous debt. 


"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame ; 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night;  by  the  tambour 

frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see;   no  time  to 

spare, 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel 

in  prayer 
The  while.    Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady 

wed, 


Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 
dead." 


So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with_busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and 

chaste; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 

her  brain. 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid> 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
frayed  and  fled. 


Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died; 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide; 
No  uttered  syllable,  or  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 

swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in 

her  dell. 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there 

was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 

And  diamonded  with  pains  of  quaint  device, 
Innumeiable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked 
wings; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  herald- 
ries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A  shielded  'scutcheon  blushed  with  blood 
of  queens  and  kings. 


Full  on   this  casement  shone  the  wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair 

breast, 
«       As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon ; 
Rose-bloom    fell   on    her   hands,   together 

prest, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew 

faint 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint. 


Anon  his  heart  revives;  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees; 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancv,  fn"   rt  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chill  v  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 

pray ; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  fiom  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 

again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Poiphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 

bless, 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet 

crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  ovei  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  slept, 
And   'tween   the   curlains   peeped,  where, 

lo! — how  fast  she  slept. 


Then  by  the  bed-side  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
Oh  foi  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 
is  gone. 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a 

heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 

gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  sytups,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Leban- 
on. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates   he   heaped  with  glowing 

hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver.    Sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling    the    chilly    room     with    perfume 

light.— 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


•'And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair  awake! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite; 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache." 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains; — 'twas  a  midnight 

charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The    lustrous    salvers    in    the    moonlight 

gleam ; 

Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies; 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phan- 
tasies. 


Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest 

he, 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "La  belle  dame  sans 

mercy ;" 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,   she    uttered   a   soft 

moan ; 

He    ceased — she   panted   quick — and  sud- 
denly 

Her  blue  eyes  aftrayed  wide  open  shone; 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 


Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 

There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  ex- 
pelled 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep; 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many 
a  sigh ; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 
keep, 

Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 
eye, 


Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so 

dreamingly. 


"Ah,  Porphyro!  "  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 

ear, 

Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear ; 
How  changed  thou  art!   how  pallid,  chill, 

and  drear! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 

dear ! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my   love,   I   know   not 

where  to  go." 


Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  re- 
pose; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet;  meantime   the  frost-wind 

blows 

Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against    the    window-panes;    St.    Agnes' 
moon  hath  set. 


'T  is  dark  ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 

sleet; 

"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Made- 
line!" 

'T  is  dark ;  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here   to  fade  and 

pine. — 

Cruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  unprun- 
ed  wing." 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


"My    Madeline!    sweet    dreamer!    lovely 

bride! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 
Thy   beauty's    shield,    heart    shaped    and 

vermeil  dyed? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy   sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


"  Hark!  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  fahv  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed. 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear.,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drowned   all   in  Rhenish   and  the  sleepy 

mead. 

Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For   o'er    the   southern   moors   I    have   a 

home  for  thee." 


She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps  with  ready 

spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by 

each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound, 

Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

hall! 

Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side; 


The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shoo"k 

his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns; 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts,  full  easy  slide; 
The    chains    lie    silent    on    the    footworn 

stones;  • 

The   kev    turns,   and   the   door    upon    it* 

hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone!  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  manv  <• 

woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and 

form 
Of   witch,   and   demon,  and    large   coffin 

worm, 

Were  long  be-nightmared.    Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  de< 

form ; 

The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye,   unsought-for    slept    among   his 

ashes  cold. 

JOHN  KEATS- 


CAUGHT. 

Ox  a  day,  (alack  the  day !) 

Love,  whose  month  was  ever  May, 

Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair, 

Playing  in  the  wanton  air: 

Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind 

All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find; 

That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 

Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 

Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow, 

Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so! 

But,  alas!  my  hand  hath  sworn 

Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn. 

Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet; 

Youth,  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 

Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 

That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee 

Thou,  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear 

Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were; 

And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 

Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

— SHAKSPEARE~ 


ILLUSTRATED  POET /if  AND  SONG 


,53 


THE   MOTHER'S  LAST  SONG. 

SLEEP! — The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing! 
No  moon  abroad — no  star  is  glowing;    • 
The  river  is  deep,  and  the  tide  is  flowing 
To  the  land  where  you  and  I  are  going! 

We  are  going  afar, 

Bevond  moon  or  star, 
To  the  land  where  the  sinless  angels  are ! 

I  lost  my  heart  to  your  heartless  sire, 
('Twas  melted  away  by  his  looks  of  fire) — 
Forgot  1113'  God,  and  my  father's  ire, 
All  for  the  sake  of  a  man's  desire; 
But  now  we  '11  go 
Where  the  waters  flow, 
And  make   us  a  bed   where  none  shall 
know. 

The  world  is  cruel — the  world  is  untrue; 
Our  foes  are  many,  our  friends  are  few; 
No  work,  no  bread,  however  we  sue! 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do, 

But  fly — fly 

From  the  cruel  sky, 

And  hide  in  the  deepest  deeps — and  die! 
BARRY  CORNWALL. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — * 

Stitch !  stitch !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt!  " 

"  Work  !   work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It  's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 


"  Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim' 
Work — work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 

"  O  men,  with  sisters  dear ! 

O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creature's  lives! 
Stitch— stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardlv  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
O  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

"  Work — work — work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags, 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor— 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime! 
Work — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 
Till    the    heart  is    sick    and  the  brain   be- 
numbed, 

As  well  as  the  wearv  hand. 

• 

"  Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  !- 
While  underneath  the  eaves 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 
A  nd  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"  Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh !  but  for  one  short  hour — 

A  respite  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch- 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !- 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!  " 
THOMAS  HOOD. 


CONSTANCY. 

OXE  eve  of  beauty,  when  the  su). 

Was  on  the  stream  of  Guadalquiver, 
To  gold  converting  one  by  one, 

The  ripples  of  the  mighty  river, 
Beside  me  on  the  bank  was  seated 

A  Seville  girl,  with  auburn  hair 
And    eyes    that    might    the    world   have 
cheated, — 

A  wild  bright,  wicked,  diamond  pair! 

She  stooped  and  wrote  upon  the  sand, 

Just  as  the  loving  sun  was  going, 
Witli  such  a  soft,  small,  shining  hand, 


I  could  have  sworn  't  was  silver  flowing. 
Her  words  were  three,  and  not  one  more, 

What  could  Diana's  motto  be? 
The  siren  wrote  upon  the  shore, — 

"  Death,  not  inconstancy." 

And  then  her  two  large  languid  eyes 

So  turned  on  mine  that,  devil  take  me, 
I  set  the  air  on  fire  witli  sighs, 

And  was  the  fool  she  chose  to  make  me! 
Saint  Francis  would  have  been  deceived 

\Vith  such  an  eye  and  such  a  hand ; 
But  one  week  more,  and  I  believed 

As  much  the  woman  as  the  sand. 

— ANONYMOUS. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior! 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue — 
Excelsior! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright . 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  "his  lips  escaped  a  groan — 
Excelsior! 

"  Try  not  the  pass,"    the  old  man  said : 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead; 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide!" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior! 

"  Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior! 


CONST.'-.  XVY. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


57 


"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night: 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  praver, 
A  voice  cried,  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star — 

Excelsior! 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion   with   her  visible    forms,  she 

speaks 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.  When 

thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and   the  narrow 

house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and   grow   sick  at 

heart — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To    nature's    teachings,    while    from     all 

around — 
Earth    and    her    waters,    and    the    depths 

of  air — 


Comes  a  still  voice :  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In    all    his   course;    nor  yet   in   the   cold 

ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid   with  many 

tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 

Thy  growth  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering 

up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements — 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And   to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his  snare,  and  treads  upon.    The 

oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy 

mould. 

Yet   not   to  thine  eternal    resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou 

wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with 

kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the 

good — 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the- 

vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between — 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured 

round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.   The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.       AH  that 

tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom — Take  the 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Of  morning;  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where    rolls   the   Oregon,    and    hears    no 

sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet —  the  dead  are 

there; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last   sleep — the   dead   reign  there 

alone. 

-So  shall  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  with- 
draw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note   of   thy    departure?       All   that 

breathe 

Will  share  thv  destiny.   The  gay  wiH  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of 

care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their   employments,  and 

shall  come 
And   make   their  bed  with  thee.     As  the 

long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he 

who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  \  ears — matron,  and 

maid. 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 

man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By   those,  who  in   their  turn  shall  follow 

them. 


So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall 

take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged   to  his  dungeon;   but,  sustained 

and  soothed 
By    an    unfaltering    trust,    approach     thy 

grave 


Like   one   who   wraps  the  drapery  of  his 

couch 
About   him,   and    lies    down    to   pleasant 

dreams. 

WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF 
JOHN   GILPIN, 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN 

HE  INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE 

HOME  AGAIN. 

JOHN  GILPIN  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown ; 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he, 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear — 
"Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"  My  sister,  and  mv  sister's  child, 

Myself  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  mv  dearest  dear; 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"  I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know; 
And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will   be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


59 


John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjojed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed 

Where  they  did  all' get  in — 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went   the   whip,   round   went  the 
wheels — 

Were  never  folks  so  glad ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride — 

But  soon  came  down  again : 

For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came :  for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

"T  was  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind; 
When  Bettv,  screaming,  came  down  stairs — 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

'•  Good  lack ! "  quoth  he — "  yet  bring  it  me) 

Mv  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  inv  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  boltles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 


Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To.  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe. 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well  shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  s®on. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  migh* 

His  horse,  \\  .10  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  Ment  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow — the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay  ; 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people. well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung — 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 


6o 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG, 


The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "  Well  done!  " 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spead  around — 
"He  carries  weight!  he  rides  a  race! 

'T  is  for  a  thousand  pound ! " 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
'  'T  was  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back, 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  did  he  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  SO  gay: 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Ed  nonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"Stop,  stop, -John  Gilpin!  here's  the  house 

They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired :  " 

Said  Gilpin— •"  So  am  J  !  " 


But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there; 
For  why  ? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  stilh 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him: 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all?  " 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timelv  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke: 

"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
Mv  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig. 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear — 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit — 
"  Mv  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

Thev  therefore  needs  must  fit. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


61 


«  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 
And  stop  and  cat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding  day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said 

"  1  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'T  was  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here — 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast, 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear! 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might. 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain — 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 


Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwayman!" 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see ! 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


THE  MOURNER. 

YES  !.  there  are  real  mourners,— I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene ; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties 

claimed, 

And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed, 
Neatly  shedrest,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief  or  pardon  for  neglect; 
But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep, 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid : 
For   then   she   thought  on   one   regretted 

youth, 
Her    tender   trust,    and    his   unquestioned 

truth; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SO.\'(,. 


In  every  place  she  wandered  where  they  'd 

been, 

And  sadly-sacred  held  the  parting  scene, 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave;  that 

place 

With    double   interest   would   she  nightly 

trace ! 
Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  the  care  she 

took 

That  he  should  softly  sleep  and  smartly  look ; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she 

told 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's 

cold 

Yet  saw  not  danger ;  dangers  he'd  withstood 

Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

His   messmates   smiled   at  flushings  on 

his  cheek, 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he 

speak, 

For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With   grievous    symptoms    he    could    not 

explain. 
He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a 

sigh 

A  lover's  message, — "Thomas,  I  must  die; 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
And  gazing  go! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake; 
Yes!    1  must  die — blow  on,  sweet  breeze 

blow  on ! 

Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone! 
O,  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair! 
One  last  fond  look ! — and   now  repeat  the 

prayer." 
He  had  his  wish,   had  more:    I  will  not 

paint 

The  lovers'  meeting ;  she  beheld  him  faint,- — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  with- 
drew; 

He  tried  to  smile,  and  half  succeeding  said, 

"Yes!  I  must  die" — and  hope  forever  fled. 

Still,     long    she    nursed     him  ;    tender 

thoughts  meantime 


Were  interchanged,  and   hopes  and  vie\\^ 

sublime. 

To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  a\\a\  ; 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read. 
Soothed  the  faint  heart  and  held  the  aching 

head ; 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  tc 

cheer, 

Apart  she  sighed;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear;. 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the 

grave. 
One   day   he   lighter   seemed,  and   they 

forgot 

The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot.. 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared. 
A  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard; — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Praver. 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his 

chair. 

Lively  he  seemed,  and  spake  of  all  he  knew  : 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favorite  few; 

.     .     .      .     but  then  his  hand  was  prest, 
And  fondly  whispered,  "Thou  must  go  to 

rest.*" 

"  I  go,"  he  said;  but  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the- 

sound ; 

Then  gazed  affrighted ;  but  she  caught  a  last 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past! 
She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above. 
Neatly  engraved, —  an  offering  of  her  love: 
For  that  she  w'rought,  for  that  forsook  her 

bed, 

Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead ; 
She  would  have  grieved  had  friends  pre- 
sumed to  spare 
The    least    assistance, — 'twas    her    proper 

care. 
Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will 

sit, 

Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit: 
But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round. 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be 

found ; 

Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hours  emplo\ . 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woe.- 

destroy. 

GEORGE  CRABBE. 


THE    MOURNKK. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


THE    BELLS. 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody 

foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icv  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversj>rinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight — 
Keying  time,  time,  time, 
Jn  a  sort  of  Runic  r.hyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 

wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells — 

Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 

foretells! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What   a   gush  of  euphony   voluminously 
wells! 

How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
belU 

*4 


1  lear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells! 
WThat  a  tale  of  terror,  now,their  turbulency 

tells! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 
In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy 

of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 

frantic  fire 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 

Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  sw    Is, 
By  the.sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the    nger 
of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells! 
What  a  world   of  solemn    thought    their 

monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls, 

A  pa?an  from  the  bells! 
And  nis  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pa-an  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  ptean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
I     a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
C.  f  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Ol  tie  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the   moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 
bells. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

THOSE  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime! 


Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  awav ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay,  f 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise;  sweet  evening  bells. 
THOMAS  MOOR  a 


THE  LADY  AT  SEA. 

CABLES  entangling  her; 
Ship-spars  for  mangling  her; 
Ropes  sure  of  strangling  her; 
Blocks  over-dangling  her; 
Tiller  to  batter  her; 
Topmast  to  shatter  her; 
Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 
Boreas  blustering; 
Boatswain  quite  flustering; 
Thunder-clouds  mustering, 
To  blast  her  with  sulphur — 
If  the  deep  do  n't  ingulph  her; 
Sometimes  fear  's  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a  mutiny, 
Sniffs  conflagration, 
Or  hints  at  starvation  ; 
All  the  sea  dangers, 
Buccaneers,  rangers, 
Pirates,  and  Sallce-men, 
Algerine  galley-men, 
Tornadoes  and  typhons, 
And  horrible  syphons, 
And  submarine  travels 
Thro'  roaring  sea-navels; 
Everything  wrong  enough — 
Long-boat  not  long  enough ; 
Vessel  not  strong  enough ; 
Pitch  marring  frippery ; 
The  deck  very  slippery ; 
And  the  cabin — built  sloping; 
The  captain  a-toping; 
And  the  mate  a  blasphemer, 
That  names  his  Redeemer — 
With  inward  uneasiness; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


The  cook  known  by  greasiness  • 
The  victuals  beslubbered; 
Her  bed — in  a  cupboard; 
Things  of  strange  christening, 
Snatched  in  her  listening; 
Blue  lights  and  red  lights, 
And  mention  of  dead  lights; 
And  shrouds  made  a  theme  of — 
Things  horrid  to  dream  of; 
And  buovs  in  the  water; 
To  fear  all  exhort  her. 
Her  friend  no  Leander — 
Herself  no  sea  gander : 
And  ne'er  a  cork  jacket 
On  board  of  the  packet; 
The  breeze  still  a-stiffening; 
The  trumpet  quite  deafening; 
Thoughts  of  repentance, 
And  doomsday,  and  sentence; 
Every  thing  sinister — 
Not  a  church  minister; 
Pilot  a  blunderer; 
Coral  reefs  under  her, 
Ready  to  sunder  her : 
Trunks  tipsy-topsv; 
The  ship  in  a  dropsy ; 
XVaves  oversurging  her; 
Sirens  a-dirging  her; 
Sharks  all  expecting  her; 
Sword-fish  dissecting  her; 
Crabs  with  their  hand-vices 
Punishing  land  vices; 
Sea-dogs  and  unicorns, 
Things  with  no  puny  horns; 
Mermen  carnivorous — 
"Good  Lord  deliver  us! " 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

WHEN  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the 

kye  at  hame, 

And  a'  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae 

my  ee. 
When  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel;  and  socht  me 
for  his  bride; 


But,  saving  a  croun,  he  had   naething  else 

beside. 
To  mak  that  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie 

gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for 

me! 

He  hadna  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my    mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the 

cow  was  stown  awa; 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie 

at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work,  and  my  mother 

cou'dna  spin; 
I    toiled   day   and    nicht,   but   their   bread 

I  cou'dna  win ; 
Auld    Rob    maintained    them  baith,  and, 

wi'  tears  in  his  ee, 
Said,   "Jenny,   for   their  sakes,  oh  marry 

me!" 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  looked  for  Jamie 

back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it 

was  a  wrack ; 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack !   Why  didna  Jamie 

dee? 
Or,  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me ! 

My  father  argued  sair — my   mother  didna 

speak, 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was 

like  to  break ; 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand ;  though  my 

heart  was  in  the  sea ; 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's   wraith,   for   I  cou'dna 

think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  "I  'm  come  back  for  to  marry 

thee ! " 

Oh  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did 
we  say ; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SOX(,. 


We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  \ve  tore  ourselves 

away ; 

I  wish  I  were  dead,  but  I  'm  no  like  to  dee; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me? 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a 

sin ; 

But  I  '11  do  my  best  a  gudc  wife  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

LADY  ANNE  BARNARD. 


CHASTELARD  TO  MARY  STUART. 

DEAR  heart,  I  bless  you  for  this  parting 

grace, 

That  is  as  sunshine  on  a  winter  day  ; 
Now  that  last  looks  may  be  upon  your  face, 
There  nothing  is  can  wound  me  on  my  way 
Filling  my  prison  with  a  light  divine, 
My  queen,  you  come  as  does  a  saintly 

moon, 

And  I  forget  the  dark  clouds  while  you  shine 
And  take  no  heed  of  that  which  will  be 

soon. 

Was  ever  fate  like  mine?  so  dark  and  sweet? 
God's  feast  before  me,  and  I  may  not  eat. 

God's  feast,  for  I   have  won  your  heart  at 

last, 

And  may  not  tarry  for  a  lover's  kiss; 
But  rich  reward  for  future  pain  and  past 
Is   this  one  hour — this  present  hour  of 

bliss. 
What  though  another  night  shall  find  me 

dead, 
With  no  more  sense  of  love  and  summer 

morn : 
I  lived  to  put  a  crown  upon  my  head 

That  shall  be  with  me  in  the  time  unborn ; 
Nor  may  I  be  deceived  with  dying  breath — 
Speech  is  prophetic  on  the  day  of  death. 

Trust  me,  my  perfect  love,  this  midnight 

walk 

Is  but  a  fretful  prologue  to  the  play — 
Anxietude  and  doubt  and  troubled  talk, 
Then  writing  shows  the  scene  for  Heaven 
Day. 


How  tell  you  all  in  such  a  breathless  time? 
When  Death  is   standing  with  his  door 

ajar, 

Counting  the  minutes  in  a  dreadful  rhvme. 
Till  he   may    take   his    whetted    scythe, 

and  mar 
The  glorious  garden  where  my  pleasures 

grew 
To  music  and  new  hope  because  of  you. 

It  is  a  fearful  fall  to  truest  knights — 

This  headlong  tumble  to  a  mystic  goal, 
This  slipping  from   God's  sky  and  all    its 

lights, 

To  dirt  and  darkness  in  a  narrow  hole; 
But  unto  me  an  angel  came  to  show 

That  we  imagine  all  the  bitter  part — 
One  crack  of  thunder  and    one   seething 

glow 

Of  lightning,  and  a  little  timid  start, 
And  there  an  end ;  the  storm  becomes  a 

charm, 
With  promise  of  new  life  without  alarm. 

I  do  remember  in  Love's  land  of  France, 
Whither  best  thoughts  do  truant-like  run 

back, 

Our  life  was  zoned  with  light  and  fair  ro- 
mance, 
And  dance  and  glamour  followed  in  the 

track — 
Nay,  these  are  not  poor  flow'rs  I  pluck  so 

late; 
They  have  the  scent  of  early  love,  and 

"tho' 
Some  poison-buds  come  too,  they   are  of 

Fate, 
And,  honey  were  not  sweet  if  't  were  not 

so; 

All  is  for  love,  and  dead!  v  nightshade  grows 
As  much  by  Heaven's  will  as  does  the  rose. 

When  that  the  gentle  Hero  held  the  light. 

Leander,  knowing  then  her  truth  to  him, 
Sank  under  sea  in  his  extreme  delight, 

And  in  Life's  river  could  no  longer  swim  : 
Now  that  you  hold  this  loving  light  to  me. 

Death's  river,  where  the  clouds  hang  in 

the  night, 
Shall  be  as  glorious  as  Leander's  sea, 


CHASTEI.ARD    TO    MARY    STUART. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And  the  mysterious  ferrv  shall  be  bright ; 
Your  tears  are  bitter-sweet,  e'en   I  could 

weep 
For  joy  of  this  "  Good  night,  and  pleasant 

sleep." 

Stay  your  tears,  my  sweet,  and  no  more 

speech 
Shall  come  from  me  of  Death;  if  my 

heart's  kiss 
Can  cure  your  agony,  I  do  beseecl* 

Your  lips  a  little,  that  I  may  not  miss 
The  melody  locked  up  with  your  dear  voice. 
This  pure  and  precious  time  can  no  pain 

give, 
But  only  gentle  faith,  and  I  rejoice 

In  knowledge  of  love  strong  enough  to 

live: 
Your  hand  is  heaven,  my  love ;  I  feel  your 

ki*s : 

Your  eyes  speak  peace,  and  now  the  rest  is 
GUY  ROSL\N. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 


HAMELIX  Town  's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 

But  when  begins  my  dittv, 

Almost  five  hundred  vears  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 


Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own 

ladles, 

Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 


By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 


At  last  tne  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 
"  'T  is  clear,"  cried  they,  "  our  Mayor  's  a 

noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 
Rouse  up,  sirs!    Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we  're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we  '11  send  you  packing!  " 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 


An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel — 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 
'  For  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence! 
It 's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain — 
I  'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap ! " 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  tap? 
i(  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what 's  that?" 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  muti- 
nous 

For  a  plate  of  turtle,  green  and  glutinous) 
"  Onlv  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat !  " 


•'Come    in!"    the    Mayor    cried,   looking 

bigger ; 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure: 
His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red; 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin; 
With  sharp  blue  eyes  each  like  a  pin; 
And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin; 
No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin 
But  lips  where  smiles  went,out  and  in — 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin! 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 
Quoth  one:  "It's  as  my  great-grandsire, 
Starting  up  at  the  trump  of  doom's  tone, 
Had    walked    this    way    from   his   painted 
tombstone !  " 


He  advanced  to  the, council  table: 

And,  "  Please  your   honors,"  said  he,  1  'm 

able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  living  creatures  beneath  the  sun, 
That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 
After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 
And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm — 
The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper — 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 
(And  here  they  noticed  around  his  neck 
A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 
To  match   with  his  coat  of  the  self  same 

check ; 

And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe; 
And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever 

straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

Yet,"  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am, 
In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Chain, 
Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats; 
I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats; 
And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders — 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 
Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?  " 
"One?  fifty  thousand!" — was  the  exclama- 
tion 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 


Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rum- 
bling; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tum- 
bling. 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  grey  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing,  . 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 
— Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was:  "At  the  first  shrill  notes  of 

the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe — 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flask';. 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  O  rats,  rejoice! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 
So    munch     on,    crunch     on,     take    your 

nuncheon, 

Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon! 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


73 


All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me! 
— I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 


You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing    the    bells   till    they   rocked   the 

steeple; 

"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  and  get  long  poles ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats!  " — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With  a,  "  First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand 

guilders !  " 


A  thousand  guilders !     The  Mayor  looked 

blue; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 
For  council  dinners  made  rare  havock 
With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock: 
And  half  the  money  would  replenish 
Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 
To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 
With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow! 
"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing 

wink, 

'•Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink ; 
We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink. 
And  what 's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think, 
So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 
From  the  duty   of  giving  you  something 

for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke ; 
But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you   very   well  know,  was  in 

joke 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty ; 
A  thousand  guilders!     Come,  take  fifty!" 


The  piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 
"No  trifling!     I  can't  wait!  beside, 
I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 


Of  the  head  cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen. 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpion's  no  survivor — 
With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver; 
With  you,  don't  think  I  '11  bate  a  stiver! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 


"  How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'ye  think  I'll 

brook 

Being  worse-treated  than  a  cook? 
Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 
With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald? 
You  threaten  us,  fellow?     Do  your  worst, 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!  " 


Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 
And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a 

bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and 

hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes 

clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues 

chattering; 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley 

is  scattering, 

Out  came  the  children  running: 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful    music  with  shouting  and 

laughter. 


The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and   the  Council 

stood 
As  if  they -were  changed  into  blocks  of 

wood, 
L^nable  to  move  a  step  or  cry 


74 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by — 
And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 
But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 
And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 
As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  \va  v  of  their  sons  and  daughters ! 
However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 
And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 
And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 
Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 
"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 
He  's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop!" 
When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain's 

side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 
As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 
And  the  Piper  advanced  and   the  children 

followed; 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 
The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast. 
Did  I  say  all?     No!     One  was  lame, 
And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way ; 
And    in    after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 
'"  It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates 

left! 

I  can  't  forget  that  I  'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 
Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me; 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 
Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 
And  every  thing  was  strange  and  new; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks 

here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 
And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 
The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 
Left  alone  against  my  will. 
To  go  now  limping  as  before, 
And  never  hear  of  that  country  more! " 


Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  manv  a  burgner's  pate 

A  text  which  says,  that  Heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in ! 
The    Mayor  sent    East,  West,  North,  and 

South, 
To  offer  the  piper  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he  'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  't  was  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for  ever^ 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  vear, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
''  And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  Seventy-six;" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  Children's  last  retreat 
They  called  it  the  Pied  Piper's  Street— 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  Great  Church  window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted. 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterranean  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago,  in  a  mighty  band, 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land,. 
But  how  or  why,  they  do  n't  understand. 


So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


75 


Of  score*  out   with    all    men  —  especially 

pipers ; 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats 

or  irom  mice, 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep 

our  promise. 

ROBERT  BRO\VXIN<;. 


IVRY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom 

all  glories  are! 
And   glory    to  our  sovereign    liege,  King 

Henry  of  Navarre! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 

and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny 

vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,   our   own    Rochelle, 

proud  citv  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 

mourning  daughters; 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 

in  our  joy ; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who 

wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned 

the  chance  of  war! 
Hurrah!    hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at 

the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  armv  of  the  league  drawn  out 

in  long  array ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its 

rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's   stout   infantry,   and    Eg- 

mont's  Flemish  spears, 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 

curses  of  our  land ; 
And   dark    Mayenne  was  in   the  midst,  a 

truncheon  in  his  hand; 
And  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of 

Seine's  empurpled  Hood, 


And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled 

with  his  blood; 
And   we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who 

ru'es  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry 

of  Navarre. 


The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 

armor  drest; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon 

his  gallant  crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  wa- 
in his  eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 

was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled 

from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout:  God. 

save  our  lord  the  king! 
"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full 

well  he  may — 
For  never   I .  saw   promise  yet   of  such  a 

bloody  fray —  . 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shim- 

amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet 

of  Navarre." 


Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.  Hark  to 
the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum, 
and  roaring  culverin. 

The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  Across  Saint 
Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders 
and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  vc  love,  fair  gen- 
tlemen of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies — upon  them 
with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thou- 
sand spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close 
behind  the  snow-white  crest; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed, 
while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  hel- 
met of  Navarre. 


76 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours:  Ma- 
yenne  hath  turned  his  rein; 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter ;  the  Flem- 
ish count  is  slain ; 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds 
before  a  Biscay  gale; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds, 
and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and, 
all  along  our  van, 

Remember  Saint  Bartholomew!  was  passed 
from  man  to  man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry — "No  French- 
man is  my  foe; 

Down,  down,  with  every  foreigner,  but  let 
your  brethren  go  " — 

Oh !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friend- 
ship or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the 
soldier  of  Navarre? 


Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who 

fought  for  France  to-day ; 
And  many  a  lordlv  banner  God  gave  them 

for  a.  prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best 

in  fight; 
And  the  good  lord  of  Rosnv  hath  ta'en  the 

cornet  white — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white 

hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the 

flag  of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with   it  high;  unfurl  it  wide — that   all 

the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house 

which  wrought  His  Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 

their  loudest  point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for 

Henry  of  Navarre. 


Ho!    maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!    matrons  of 

Lucerne — 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 

who  never  shall  return. 
Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 

pistoles, 


That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for 

thy  poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  league,  look  that 

your  arms  be  bright ; 
Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch 

and  ward  to-night; 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our 

God  hath  raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and 

the  valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom 

all  glories  are; 
And   glory    to   our    sovereign    lord,  King 

Henry  of  Navarre ! 

LORD  MACAULAY. 


RED  AND  WHITE. 

UNDER  the  trees  by  the  darkling  stream 
The  red  chief  lurks  at  morning; 

His  dusk  cheek  flushes — an  angry  gleam 
Is  in  his  wild  eye — scorning 

All  food  or  sleep,  in  a  vengeful  dream 
He  waits  for  the  scout's  shrill  warning. 

The  sun  rides  high,  and  the  forest  screen 
Is  pierced,  and  the  sluggish  river 

Lights  up  and  laughs,  and  the  murk  v  green 
Grows  cool  with  a  golden  shiver — 

But  the  red  chief  whetteth  his  knife  so  keen 
And  loosens  the  store  of  his  quiver. 

Down  sinks  the  sun,  the  evening  hvmn 
Of  birds  to  heaven  hath  risen ; 

All  in  the  stillness  that  chief  so  grim 
He  springs  to  his  feet  to  listen, 

And  the  red  men  crouch  by  the  river's  brim 
With  hungry  eyes  that  glisten. 

There's  a  plashing  of  oars  in   the  turbid 

wave, 

There's  a  glitter  of  knives  in  the  brake, 
With  a  careless  boat-song  on  to  their  grave, 

With  the  dying  sun  in  their  wake, 
The  robbers  come,  who  have  roused  the 

brave 
A  sudden  revenge  to  take. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


79 


The   men    \vho   dreamed    that    the   dusky 

maids 

Should  smile  in  the  huts  of  the  pale — 
(),  long  shall  their  daughters  through  forest 

glades 

Gaze  out,  and  their  wives  shall  wail, 
I'or  keen  and  sure  are  the  red  men's  blades, 
And  the  river  tells  no  tale. 

B.    MOXTGOMERIE    RAXK.IXG. 


THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 


FROM  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  the  devil  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  snug  little  farm,  the  earth, 

And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

n. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain; 
And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  his 
long  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane. 


And  how  then  was  the  devil  drest? 

Oh!  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best: 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were 

blue, 
And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came 

through. 


He  saw  a  lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  hard  by  his  own  stable; 

And    the  devil  smiled,   for  it  put  him  in 

mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother  Abel. 

v. 

He  saw  an  apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Ride  by  on  his  vocations; 
And  the  devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death,  in  the  Revelations. 


He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house 

A  cottage  of  gentility, 
And  the  devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 


He  peeped  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop — 
Quoth  he,  "We  are  both  of  one  college! 

For  I  sate,  myself,  like  a  cormorant,  once, 
Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge." 


Down  the  river  did  glide,  with  wind  and 

with  tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity ; 
And  the  devil  looked  wise  as  he  saw  how, 

the  while, 
It  cut  its  own.  throat.     "There!"  quoth  he 

with  a  smile, 
"Goes  England's  commercial  prosperity." 


As  he  went  through  Cold-Bath  Fields  he  saw 

A  solitary  cell; 

And  the  devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him 
a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  hell. 


He  saw  a  turnkey  in  a  trice 

Fetter  a  troublesome  blade ; 
"  Nimbly,"  quoth  he,  "  do  the  fingers  move 

If  a  man  be  but  used  to  his  trade." 


He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfetter  a  man 

With  but  little  expedition; 
Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long  debate 

On  the  slave-trade  abolition. 

XII. 

He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 

As  he  passed  by  a  Methodist  meeting; 
She  holds  a  consecrated  key, 

And  the  devil  nods  her  a  greeting. 


So 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


She  turned  up  her  nose,  and  said, 
"  Avaunt! — my  name  's  Religion!  " 

And  she  looked  to  Mr.  , 

And  leered  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 


He  saw  a  certain  minister, 
A  minister  to  his  mind, 

Go  up  into  a  certain  house, 
With  a  majority  behind; 


The  devil  quoted  Genesis, 

Like  a  very  learned  clerk, 
How  "  Noah  and  his  creeping  things 

Went  up  into  the  ark." 

XVI. 

He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich, 
And  he  shook  hands  with  a  Scotchman, 

For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the 

*.*.*.* 


General 


burning  face 


He  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take — 
For  the  devil  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

It  was  a  general  conflagration. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


•SWEET  SUMMER  TIME. 

WHO  has  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss 

On  a  bright  sunny  noon  like  this, 

Couched  by  his  native  brook's  green  maze, 

With  comrade  of  his  boyish  days, 

While  all  around  them  seemed  to  be 

Ju^t  as  in  joyous  infancy; 

Who  has  not  loved  at  such  an  hour, 

U    ^n  that  heath  in  birchen  bower, 

Li  .    il  in  the  poet's  dreamy  mood, 

Its  \\ild  and  sunny  solitude? 


While  o'er  the  waste  of  purple  ling 
You  mark  a  sultry  glimmering; 
Silence  herself  there  seems  to  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  a  slumber  long  and  deep. 
Where  slowly  stray  those  lonely  sheep 
Through  the  tall  foxglove's  crimson  bloom. 
And  gleaming  of  the  scattered  broom, 
Love  you  not,  then,  to  list  and  hear 
The  crackling  of  the  gorse-flowers  near, 
Pouring  an  orange-scented  tide 
Of  fragrance  o'er  the  desert  wide? 
To  hear  the  buzzard's  whimpering  shrill, 
Hovering  above  you  high  and  still? 
The  twittering  of  the  bird  that  dwells 
Among  the  heath's  delicious  bells? 
While  round  ^'our  bed,  o'er  fern  and  blade, 
Insects  in  green  and  gold  arrayed, 
The  sun's  gay  tribes  have  lightly  strayed ; 
And  sweeter  sound  their  humming  wings 
Than  the  proud  minstrel's  echoing  string 
WILLIAM  HOWITT. 


TAM  O'SHANTER. 


Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Bnke. 

Go-win  Douglas*. 

WHEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-davs  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 
That  He  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'Shanter, 
As  he,  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 

O  Tarn !  hadst  thou  been  but  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  bleth'ring,  blust'ring,  drunken  blellum, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melder,  \vi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirten  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou   would  be  found  deep  drowned    in 

Doon ; 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Allowav's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale:  Ae  market  night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  bv  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony — 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither — 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither, 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter, 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  precious; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happv, 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure; 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride — 


That  hour  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  takes  the  road  in 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellowed; 
That  night  a  child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 
(A  better  never  lifted  leg), 
Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire — 
Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles    crooning   o'er    some   auld    Scots 

sonnet, 

Whyles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck  bane: 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  bv  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Where  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods: 
The   doubling    storm    roars    through    the 

.    woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk  Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing, 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn! 
What  dangers  thou  can'st  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippennv  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  Devil! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  Deils  a  bodle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight; 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance: 


S4 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathsprejs,  and  reels 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast — 

A  towzie  tvke,  black,  grim,  and  large — 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 

He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  an'  rafter  a'  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrips  sleight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light — 

By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 

A  thief,  new  cutted  fra  a  rape, 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  \vi'  bluid  red  rusted; 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 

A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 

A  knife  a  father's  throat  hud  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft — 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  turned  inside  out, 

Wi'  lies  seamed  like  a  beggar's  clout; 

And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 

Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk: 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu' 

Which  ev'n  to  name  would  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowred,  amazed,  and  curious 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reeled,  they   set,  they  crossed,  they 

cleckit, 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat,  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark. 

Now  Tarn,  O  Tarn !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens: 
Their  sarks,  instead  of  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen ; 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  aff  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 


Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock — 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But    Tarn    kenn'd    what   was  what   fu' 

brawlie, 

There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore! 
For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perished  monie  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear), 
Her  cutty-sark  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn — 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vaunty. 
Ah!  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  (twas  a'  her  riches) — 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cower 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  strang) ; 
And  how  Tain  stood,  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enriched. 
Ev'n  Satan  glowred,  and  fidged  fu'  fain,    • 
And  hotched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither — 
Tarn  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!  " 
And  in  an  instant  a'  was  dark ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied, 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  bykc; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  Catch  the  thief!  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs — the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tarn!  ah,  Tarn!  thou'll  get  thv  fair- 
in'! 

In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  com  in' — 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle: 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  \vha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


HYMN 

BEFORE    SUNRISE,    IN    THE    VALE   OF 
CHAMOUNI. 

HAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course?  So  long  he  seems  to 

pause 

On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave   ceaselessly ;  but    thou,   most  awful 

Form, 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep    is    the    air    and    dark,    substantial, 

black— 

An  ebon  mass.  Methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !  But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 

shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!    I  gazed  upon 

thee, 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.    Entranced 

in  prayer 

1  wosrhipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 


Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with 

my  thought — 

Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 
As  in    her   natural    form,    swelled  vast  to 

Heaven! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ectasy!    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song!    Awake,  my  heart, 

awake ! 
Green    vales    and    icy    cliffs,    all  join  my 

hymn. 
Thou    first  and  chief,   sole  sovereign  of 

the  vale! 
Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 

night, 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 

sink — 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  —  wake,  oh  wake,  and  utter 

praise ! 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual 

streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely 

glad! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter 

death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged 

rocks. 

For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  lift, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 

your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And    who    commanded  (and   the   silence 

came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's 

brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 


86 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Torrents,  methinks,  that   heard   a   mighty 
voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge! 

Motionless  torrents!  silent  cataracts! 

Who   made  you  g'orious  as  the  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  hade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?    Who,  with  liv- 
ing flowers 

Of  lovliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet? 

God! — let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  na- 
tions, 

Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 

God!  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  glad- 
some voice! 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like 
sounds! 

And  the}'  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And  in    their   perilous   fall  shall  thunder, 

God! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's 
nest! 

Ye    eagles,   playmates   of   the   mountain- 
storm  ! 

Ye    lightnings,   the   dread    arrows  of  the 
clouds! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 

Utter   forth   God,  and   fill   the   hills   with 


praise 


Thou   too,  hoar  Mount!  with    thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 

pure  serene, 
Into   the   depths  of  clouds    that    veil  thy 

breast — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow   travelling    wjth   dim   eyes   suffused 

with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  oh  ever  rise! 


Rise   like   a   cloud   of   incense,    from  the 

Earth ! 

Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou    dread    ambassador    from    Earth    to 

Heaven, 

Great  Hierarch!  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,    with  her  thousand    voices,    praises 

God. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


BLIGHTED  LOVE. 


(From  the  Portuguese  of    Luis   De    Camoens,  by 
Lord  Strang/ord.) 


FLOWERS  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green, 

Cheerily  the  linnets  sing; 
Winds  are  soft,  and  skies  serene; 

Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw 

Winter's  snow 
O'er  the  buxom  breast  of  spring! 

Hope,  that  buds  in  lover's  heart, 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  years; 
Time  makes  love  itself  depart; 

Time  and  storm  congeal  the  mind,- 

Looks  unkind, 
Freeze  affection's  warmest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green ; 
Time  dissolve  the  winter's  snow; 
Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene; 

Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain: 

But  again 
Blighted  love  shall  never  blow 


MAUD  MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hav. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 


BLIGHTED    LOVE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off"  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled 

up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks!"   said    the    judge,   "a   sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing   birds  and   the    humming 
bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered 

whether 
The  cloud   in  the  west  would  bring  foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel-eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 
*5 


Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  met 
That  I  the  judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coaty 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each 
day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 

poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the 

hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still : 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay. 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs,. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud   and 

cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When   he  hummed   in  court  an  old  love 
tune: 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well,. 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 


•0* 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  lie  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms; 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret 

pain, 
"  A  h,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay.' 

•She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain, 
'Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
•Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  a  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  wall* 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 


A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge! 

God  pitv  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  ot  youth  recall; 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The   saddest  are   these:  "It   might   have- 
been  ! " 

Ah,  well!  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  his  grave  away ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


WE  PARTED  IN  SILEN'CE. 

WE  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night,    • 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river; 
Where    the    fragrant   limes    their  boughs 
unite. 

We  met — and  we  parted  forever! 
The  night-bird  sung — and  the  stars  above 

Told  manv  a  touching  story 
Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of 
love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence, — our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling; 

We    vowed    we    would   never,   no,    never 

forget, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  con- 
soling; 
But  those  lip*:  that   echoed  the  sounds  of 

mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river; 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine, 
Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever. 


WE    PARTED    IN    SILENCE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


9J 


And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping; 
Kach  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
\\'e  parted  in  silence, — we  parted  in  tears 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river; 
l>ut  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone 
years 

ang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

— MRS.  CRAWFORD. 


ANNIE  LAURIE. 

MAXWELTON  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true; 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  sna\v  drift; 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 
And  dark  blue  is  her  ee; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o  her  fairy  feet; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighim 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

OH!  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old ! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 


The    walls  must  be  crumbled,   the  stones 

decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have 

made 
Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 
Fast  he  stealeth  on,   though  he  wears  no 

wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he! 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  de- 
cayed, 

And  nations  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past;  • 

For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivv  green. 
CHARLES  DICKENS. 


AMID  THE  ROSES. 

I  SEEK  her  midst  the  roses,  and 
My  soul  is  sore  for  love. 

Her  image  beams  serenely  grand 
As  Cynthia's  form  above, 

Enchas'd  in  halo.     Brave  mv  hand 
To  grasp  thy  treasure  trove! 

I  seek  her  midst  the  roses,  for 

I  may  no  longer  wait 
A  suitor  reckless  at  her  door, 

And  flinch  to  learn  mv  fate. 
I  dare  not  hope.     I  dare  no  more 

Than  humbly  supplicate. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


I  seek  her  midst  the  roses,  where 

Soft  pleasures,  redolent 
Of  gracious  things,  enrich  the  air 

Impregnate  with  their  scent. 
She  can  but  choose  to  hear  a  prayer 

With  odor  thus  besprent. 

I  meet  her  midst  the  roses.     Yes; 

Hard  by  the  mossv  briars. 
One  bud  she  clasps  in  close  caress, 

So  cold,  though  near  her  fires. 
To  live  as  that,  nor  more  nor  less, 

Would  surfeit  Jove's  desires. 

I  greet  her  midst  the  roses,  while 
Fierce  burns  the  breath  of  May. 

Whv  turns  she  to  avoid  my  smile? 
Whv  cast  her  bud  awav? 

Just  Phoebus!  could  a  thing  of  guile 
Deserve  a  darker  day  ? 

Yet,  no!    Amid  the  roses,  I 
Will  deem  her  cruel-kind  : 

When  maiden  frowns  disdainfully 
'T  were  wisdom  to  be  blind. 

'•Twere  weak  to  count  a  wilful  eye 
The  reflex  of  her  mind. 

Thus,  tremulous  midst  the  roses,  lest 
My  love  its  love  should  miss, 

I  falter  forth  a  bold  request 
That  she  will  grant  me  bliss — 

But  once  to  sip  her  best  of  best, 
The  nectar  of  a  kiss. 

She  midst  her  roses  stands  apart 

In  silvern  panoply 
Of  innocence.     But  Cupid's  dart, 

Though  fitted  warily, 
Wings  not  its  flight.     Must  I  depart 

Shamed  of  my  urgency? 

Yc  roses!  "  Such  request,  Sir  Knight 
Fond  heart  should  never  rue." 

I  hear  a  whisper,  laughing  light, 
"  Though  best  of  best  for  you, 

Nor  coral  lip,  nor  forehead  white, 
Rather  this  silken  shoe!  " 


An  echo  from  the  roses  rends 

My  bosom  and  the  skv. 
Humbly  1  kneel.     My  right  hand  bends 

1  ler  latchet  to  untie, 
Whilst  she  a  dainty  foot  extends 

In  gesture  mockingly- 

Then  mid  the  blossoms  ruby  red 
The  Boy-God  draws  his  shaft. 

Home  has  the  love-tipt  arrow  sped 
On  roseate  odors  waft. 

She  thrills.     Her  dainty  heart  has  bled 
Ere  my  poor  lips  have  quaffed. 

In  true  obeisance  hers,  not  her, 

The  fire-containing  ice. 
No  cause  to  cringe,  no  fear  to  err; 

She  changes  in  a  trice 
From  white  to  rose;  confessing,  "  Sir, 

You  give  me  Paradise." 

Ye  swains,  amid  the  roses  find 

'Twere  wisdom  to  be  true. 
Your  Chloe's  test  may  seem  unkind, 

And  hard  your  Chloe's  shoe; 
Yet  when  she  proves  vour  constant  mind 

She  '11  e'en  consent  to  you. 

— COMPTON  READE. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING 
LEAVES. 

THAT  way  look,  my  infant,  lo! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show ! 
See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall — 
Withered  leaves, — one,  t\vo,  and  three, 
From  the  lofty  elder  tree ! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 
Eddying  round  and  round,  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly;  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made, 
Every  little  leaf  conveved 
Sylph  or  fairy  hither  tending, 
To  this  lower  world  descending, 


AMID    THE    ROSES. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


97 


Each  invisible  and  mute 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 

But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts ! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 

Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow; 

There  are  many  now, —  now  one, — 

Now  thev  stop,  and  there  are  none. 

What  intenseness  of  desire 

In  her  upward  eye  of  fire! 

With  a  tiger-leap!     Half-way 

Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 

1  las  it  in  her  power  again ; 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  bevond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 

Of  a  thousand  st,anders-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 

What  would  little  Tabby  care 

For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud, 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 

Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure! 

•T  is  a  pretty  baby  treat, 
Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet; 
Here  for  neither  Babe  nor  me 
Other  playmate  can  I  see. 
Of  the  countless  living  things 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade, 
Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade), 
And  with  busy  revellings, 
Chirp,  and  song,  and  murmurings, 
Made  this  orchard's  narrow  space, 
And  this  vale,  so  blithe  a  place; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away, 
Never  more  to  breathe  the  day. 
Some  are  sleeping;  some  in  bands 
Travelled  into  distant  lands; 
Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 
Far  from  human  neighborhood ; 
And,  among  the  kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship, 
With  us  openlv  abide, 
All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 


Where  is  he,  that  giddy  sprite. 
Blue-cap,  with  his  colors  bright, 
Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be, 
Feeding  in  the  apple-tree — 
Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out — 
Hung,  head  pointing  towards  the  ground, 
Fluttered,  perched,  into  a  round 
Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound — 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin! 
Prettiest  tumbler  ever  seen ! 
Light  of  heart,  and  light  of  limb — 
What  is  now  become  of  him? 
Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 
When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 
They  are  sobered  bv  this  time. 
If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill, 
If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 
Save  a  little  neighboring  rill 
That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 
Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 
And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain ; 
Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure; 
Creature  none  can  she  decov 
Into  open  sign  of  joy. 
Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near? 
Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gayety  ? 


Yet,  whate'er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  every  creature — 
Whatsoe'er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show — 
Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  Kitten !  from  thy  freaks, — 
Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 
O'er  my  little  Dora's  face — 
Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms. 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine. 
That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair! 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And  I  will  have  my  careless  season 

Spite  of  melancholy  reason, 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way 

That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 

Now  and  then  I  may  possess 

1  lours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

IMeased  by  any  random  toy — 

By  a  kitten's  busy  joy, 

Or  an  infant's  laughing  eye 

-Sharing  the  ecstasy— 

1  would  fare  like  that  or  this, 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss, 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 

Matter  for  a  jocund  thought — 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life's  falling  leaf. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


MARY  MORISON. 

O,  MARY,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour, 
Those  smiles»and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor, 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw ; 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  you  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison!" 

Oh,  Mary!  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee? 
( )r  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whose  only  fault  is  loving  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  WATCHER. 

SLEEP  on,  baby  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  thy  plaving — 
Sleep  on  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That  you  dropped  away  in ; 
On  your  curls'  fair  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely; 
One  cheek,  pushed  out  by  the  hand, 

Folds  the  dimple  inly — 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure; 
Underneath  the  lids  half-shut 

Plants  the  shining  azure; 
Open-souled  in  noonday  sun, 

So, you  lie  and  slumber; 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannat  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  mav  undo  vou? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  faith  appeareth ! 
I  smile,  too;  for  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss; 

I  shall  sleep,  though  losing! 
As  by  cradle,  so  bv  cross, 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  all  as  tired  of  pain 

As-you  are  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon,  too,  bv  His  grace, 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
I  shall  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly — 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping — 

Differing  in  this,  that  I, 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder, 
And  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder — 


MARY    MORRISON. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Differing  in  this  beside 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Your  great  eyes  toward  me?) 
That  while  I  vou  draw  withal 

From  this  slumber  solely, 
Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy ! 
ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


LOCHINVAR. 

OH,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west ; 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was 

the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapons 

had  none; 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not 

for  stone ; 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 

was  none; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 

late ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  broth- 
ers, and  all ; 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on 
his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never 
a  word,) 

'•  Oh  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 
war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 
Lochinvar?  " 

"  I  long  wooed  vour  daughter,  mv  suit  vou 
denied — 


Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 

its  tide — 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 

mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 

wine ; 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely 

by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  voung 

Lochinvar." 

The   bride   kissed    the   goblet — the  knight 

took  it  up; 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down 

the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
He  took    her   soft   hand,   ere    her   mother 

could  bar, — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure !  "    said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret  and  her  father 

did  fume, 
And   the   bridegroom    stood   dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twere 

better  by  far 
To   have    matched    our   fair   cousin    with 

young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one   word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the 

charger  stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 
"She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush, 

and  scaur; 
They'll    have    fleet   steeds    that    follow," 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the 
Netherby  clan; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and   Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran : 
There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Canno- 

bie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride   of  Netherby    ne'er  did 

they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war^ 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar? 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


MAY. 

May,  thou  month  of  rosy  beauty, 
Month  when  pleasure  is  a  duty; 
Month  of  maids  that  milk  the  kine, 
Bosom  rich,  and  health  divine; 
Month  of  bees  and  month  of  flowers, 
Month  of  blossom-laden  bowers; 
Month  of  little  hands  with  daisies, 
Lover's  love,  and  poet's  praises ; 

0  thou  merry  month  complete, 
Mav,  the  very  name  is  sweet! 
May  was  MAID  in  olden  times — 
And  is  still  in  Scottish  rhymes — 
May 's  the  month  that 's  laughing  now. 

1  no  sooner  write  the  word, 
Than  it  seems  as  though  it  heard, 
And  looks  up  and  laughs  at  me, 
Like  a  sweet  face,  rosily, — 
Flushing  from  the  paper's  white; 
Like  a  bride  that  knows  her  power 
Startled  in  a  summer  bower. 

If  the  rains  that  do  us  wrong 
Come  to  keep  the  winter  long 
And  deny  us  thy  sweet  looks, 
I  can  love  thee,  sweet,  in  books; 
Love  thee  in  the  poet's  pages, 
Where  they  keep  thee  green  for  ages; 
Love  and  read  thee  as  a  lover 
Reads  his  lady's  letter  over, 
Breathing  blessings  on  the  art 
Which  commingles  those  that  part. 
There  is  May  in  books  for  ever: 
May  will  part  from  Spencer  never ; 
May  's  in  Milton,  May 's  in  Prior, 
May's  in  Chaucer,  Thomson,  Dyer; 


Mav 's  in  all  the  Italian  books; 
She  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
Where  she  sleeps  with  nvmphs  and  elvi-- 
In  happy  places  they  call  shelves, 
And  will  rise  and  dress  your  rooms 
With  a  drapery  thick  with  blooms. 

Come,  ye  rains,  then,  if  ye  will, 
May's  at  home  and  with  me  still; 
But  come  rather,  thou  good  weather, 
And  find  us  in  the  fields  together. 

LEIGH  HINT. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

THE  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever, 

With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single; 

All  things  bv  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I  with  thine? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea;  — 
What  are  all  these  kisses  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLKY. 


MY   LOVE. 


NOT  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star; 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


MAY. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  mav  choose  to  blow. 


Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot; 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 


She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise: 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 


She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things; 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 


Blessing  she  is ;  God  made  her  so ; 
And  deeds  of  week-dav  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow ; 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 


She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

VIII. 

She  is  a  woman — one  in  whom 

The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 

Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 


Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 


I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


,  And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 
Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie; 
It  flows  around  them  and  between, 
And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD. 

COME  into  the  garden,  Maud — 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown! 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves, 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves' 
To  faint  in  its  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune — 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon, 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gav. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 
And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 


io6 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Low  '  .1  "!>•>    and  and  loud  on  the  stone 
Th?  .';!**.  "'heel  echoes  away. 

I  '  Vid  to  t*»e  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 
In  bahb'e  and  revel  and  wine. 

C  voung  'ord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  on"  that  will  never  be  thine! 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

.    "  For  ever  and  ever,  mine !  " 

And  the  «oul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 
As  tb^  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 

And  I'.^g  by  the  garden  lake  1  stood, 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 

the  wood — 
Oi-r  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all — 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs, 
He  sets  the  jewel  print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes — 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet, 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  accacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake — 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither!    the  dances  are  done; 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,   sunning  over  with 

curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear, 
She  is  coming,  mv  life,  my  fate! 

The  red   rose   cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is 
near;" 


And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear," 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthly  bed; 
Mv  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead — 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

ALFRED  TEXNYSON. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 

Ix  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 
For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  vard ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid 

shade, 

And  o'er  her  burst  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies. 
Then  headlong  plunging,  thunders  on  the 

ground; 
Earth  groans!  air  trembles!  and  the  deeps 

»     resound ! 

Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 
And  quivering  with  the  wound  in  torment 

reels. 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throe*. 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's 

blows. 

Again  she  plunges!  hark!  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong   bottom   on    the    mar  hit- 
rock: 
Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal 

cries, 
The  fated   victims,   shuddering,   roll   their 

eyes 

In  wild  despair:  while  vet  another  stroke. 
With  deep  convulsions,  rends  the  solid  oak  ; 
Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 
At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides, 
And,  crashing,  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

O,  were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Maro's  art 
To  wake  to  sympathy  the  feeling  heart; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Like  him  the  smooth  and  mournful  verse 

to  dres> 

In  all  the  pomp  of  exquisite  distress, 
Then  too  severely  taught  by  cruel  fate, 
To  share  in  all  the  perils  I  relate, 
Then  might  I,  with  unrivalled  strains  de- 
plore 

The  impervious  horrors  of  a  leeward  shore ! 
As  o'er  the  surge  the  stooping  mainmast 

hung, 

Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung; 
Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  crag  were 

cast, 

And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast, 
Awhile  they   bore   the  o'erwhelming  bil- 
lows' rage, 

Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 
Till,  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego 
Their    slippery    hold,  and   sink  to  shades 

below, 
Some,  from  the  main  yard-arm  impetuous 

thrown 

On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a  groan. 
Three  with  Palemon  on  their  skill  depend. 
And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  de- 
scend. 
Now  on  the  mountain  wave  on  high  they 

ride, 

Then  downward   plunge  beneath  the  in- 
volving tide, 

Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive, 
The    whirling   breakers    heave   on    shore 

alive; 

The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 
And  pressed  the  stony  beach,  a  lifeless  crew ! 
WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 


WIDOW  machree,it's  no  wonder  you  frown — 
Och  hone!  widow  machree 

Faith,  it  ruins  vour  looks,  that  same  dirtv 

black  gown — 
Och  hone!  widow  machree. 


How  altered  your  air, 

With  that  close  cap  you  wear — 

'T  is  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free : 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl — 

Och  hone !  widow  machree ! 


Widow  machree,  now  the  summer  is  come — 

Och  hone!  widow  machree 
When  every  thing  smiles,  should  a  beaut  v 

look  glum? 

Och  hone!  widow  machree! 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares — 
Why,  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can  't  spake,  thev  wish — 
Och  hone!  widow  machree. 


Widow  machree,  and  when  winter  comes 

in — 

Och  hone!  widow  machree — 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 


And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts 

I  've  towld — 

Och  hone!  widow  machree — 
But  you  Ve  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in 

the  cowld, 

Och  hone!  widow  machree! 
With  such  sins  on  vour  head, 
Sure  vour  peace  would  be  fled; 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,    "  Och    hone !    widow    ma- 
chree!" 


Then  take  my  advice,  darling  widow  ma- 

chree — 

Och  hone !  widow  machree — 
And  with  mv  advice,  faith,  I  wish  vou  'd 

take  me, 

Och  hone!  widow  machree! 
You  'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire ; 
And  sure  hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you  'd  me  near  your  heart — 
Och  hone !  widow  machree ! 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 


AFTER  THE  SEASON. 

AT  last 't  is  over,  doggie  dear, 

The  folks  are  fled,  and  town  's  deserted : 
The  Park  is  desolate  and  drear, 

Where  once  we  walked  and — some  girls 

—flirted. 

Here,   on    the   white    cliff's    grass-grown 
brink, 

'Neath  which  the  blue  sea  frets  and  tosses, 
We'll  rest  ourselves  awhile,  and  think 

About  the  season's  gains  and  losses. 

Ah  me!     It  seems  but  yesterday 

The   boughs   with   blossoms   rich   were 

laden ; 
It  was  the  merry  month  of  May, 

And  I,  a  merry-hearted  maiden. 
Now,  like  a  wild  bird  safely  caged, 

A  captor  my  lost  heart  is  caging;  — 
What  wonder  I  should  be  engaged 

To  Guy,  whose  ways  are  so  engaging? 

Aunt  Mary  says  that  love  's  a  myth, 

And  other  heresies  advances; 
She  vows  she  has  no  patience  with 

A  girl  who  throws  away  her  chances. 


My  cousin  hopes  that  "  Eva  knows 

What's  best,  but  must  take  leave  to  doubt 
it." 

And  shakes  her  head — which  onlv  shows 
How  little  she  can  know  about  it! 

It  may  not  be  in  others'  eyes 

A  wealthy  match ;  but  I  Ve  a  notion 
A  wealth  we  never  should  despise 

Is  that  of  firm  and  deep  devotion. 
And,  as  I  say,  when  cousin  Nell 

Laments  that  we  can't  keep  a  carriage, 
Sometimes  when  young  girls  "  marrv  well,'1 

It  doesn't  prove  a  well-made  marriage. 

The  Earl  who  filled  my  school-day  dream 

When  I  was  small  and  rather  silly, 
Might  have  supplied  a  splendid  team 

To  dash  me  down  through  Piccadilly. 
But  of  this  truth  right  sure  am  I : 

No  mode  of  travel  known  at  present 
Compares  to  rambling  on  with  Guv 

Thro'  fields  of  fancy,  fresh  and  pleasant ! 

The  Earl  would  have  grand  castles,  plac'd 

In  several  counties,  I  conjecture; 
Arranged  with  most  luxurious  taste, 

Of  most  imposing  architecture. 
But  where  is  one  so  rich  and  rare 

(Though  practical  old  folks  may  quiz  it) 
As  that  grand  castle  in  the  air 

Which  Guy  and  I  so  often  visit? 

Which  are  most  precious,  pure  and  bright, 

(I  know  how  /  should  make  selection  !) 
.The  gems  that  gleam  with  radiant  light, 

Or  eyes  that  beam  with  fond  affection  ? 
And  Guv's  so  good,  and  true,  and  bold, 

With  such  a  splendid  air  about  him ; 
He  should  have  been  a  knight  of  old — 

Onlv  I  could  n't  live  without  him! 

I'm  sure  't  is  wise  to  marry  Guy, 

For  true  love  is  a  peerless  blessing; 
The  way  some  parents  let  men  buy 

Their  daughters,  is,  I  think,  distressing. 
I  place  that  foremost  'mid  the  lot 

Of  things  that  should  at  once  be  seen  to; 
I  'm  sure  it 's  wise — and  if  it 's  not, 

It  doesn't  matter,  for  I  mean  to! 

ALFRED  E.  T.  WATSON. 


AFTER    THE    SEASON. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


JENNY  KISSED  ME! 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in, 
Time,  you  thief  !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  jour  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I  'm  weary,  say  I  'm  sad ; 

Say. that  health  and  wealth  have  missed 

me; 

Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add — 
Jenny  kissed  me! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


EXCUSE. 

I  TOO  have  suffered.     Yet  I  know 
She  is  not  cold,  though  she  seems  so; 
She  is  not  cold,  she  is  not  light ; 
But  our  ignoble  souls  lack  might. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turned  upon  the  sons  of  men ; 
But  light  the  serious  visage  grew — 
She    looked,   and   smiled,   and   saw   them 
through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored  puny  passion-fits — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she ! 

Yet  oh,  that  fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we — 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights — 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights — 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe! 


And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry — Long,  long  I  Ve  looked  for  thee! 

Then  will  she  weep — with  smiles,  till  then 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE   PILGRIM 
FATHERS   IN   NEW-ENGLAND. 

"  Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
Those  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads." 

BRYANT. 


THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high, 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New-England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods 

rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 


ILLUSTRATED  POET/f)'  AND  SONG. 


The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  \\hite  wave's  foam ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band: 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ; — 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they 

found — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 


THE  BROOKLET. 

SWEET  brooklet,  ever  gliding, 
Now  high  the  mountains  riding. 
The  lone  vale  now  dividing, 

Whither  away? — 
•With  pilgrim  course  I  flow, 
Or  in  summer's  scorching  glow, 
Or  o'er  moonless  wastes  of  snow, 

Nor  stoop,  nor  stay 
For  O,  by  high  behest, 
To  a  bright  abode  of  rest 
In  my  parent  Ocean's  breast, 

I  hasten  away!" 

Many  a  dark  morass, 
Many  a  craggy  mass, 
Thy  feeble  force  must  pass ; 

Yet,  yet  delay  !— 


Though  the  marsh  be  dire  and  deep, 
Though  the  crag  be  stern  and  steep, 
On,  on  mv  course  must  sweep; 

I  may  not  stav  : 
For  O,  be  it  east  or  west, 
To  a  home  of  glorious  rest 
In  a  bright  sea's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away !  " 

The  warbling  bowers  beside  thee 
The  laughing  flowers  that  hide  thee 
With  soft  accord  they  chide  thee, — 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay ! 
I  taste  of  the  fragrant  flowers, 
I  respond  to  the  warbling  bowers, 
And  sweetly  they  charm  the  hours 

Of  my  winding  wav  ; 
But  ceaseless  still  in  quest 
Of  that  everlasting  rest 
In  my  parent's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away ! " 

Knowest  thou  that  dread  abyss? 
Is  it  a  scene  of  bliss? 
O,  rather  cling  to  this, — 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay ! 
;  O,  who  shall  fitly  tell 
What  wonders  there  may  dwell? 
That  world  of  mvstery  well 

May  strike  dismay : 
But  I  know  'tis  my  parent's  breast; 
There  held  I  must  needs  be  blest, 
And  with  joy  to  that  promised  rest 

I  hasten  awav  !  " 
SIR  ROBERT  GRANT 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT 
BRIGADE  AT  BALAKLAVA. 

HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SOXG. 


7/7 


For  up  came  an  order  which 
Some  one  had  blundered. 

"  Forward,  the  light  brigade! 

Take  the  guns!"  Nolan  said: 

Into  the  vallev  of  death, 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward  the  light  brigade!" 
No  man  was  there  dismayed — 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die — 
Into  the  vallev  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  thev  rode  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Firvsr.eo  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flasbed  all  at  once  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
With  many  a  desp'rate  stroke 
The  Russian  line  they  broke; 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
Those  that  had  fought  so  wrell 
Came  from  the  jaws  of  death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade? 
Oh  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  light  brigade, 

Noble. six  hundred! 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


LAMENT   OF  THE    IRISH   EMI 
GRANT. 

I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride; 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek; 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  grave-yard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary — 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends; 
But,  oh !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride : 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


itS 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone : 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh!  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can  't  reach  you  more ! 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true! 
But  I  'I'  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  'in  goin'  to; 
They  say  there 's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May 
morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

LADY  DUFFERIN. 


PLAYING  WITH  LOVE. 

AGAIN  the  trees  stand  bare  upon  the  moor, 
And  bend  their  withered  heads  before  the 

wind ; 
Again  the  snow  is  heaped  up  at  the  door, 

And  frost  is  making  many  a  fairy  blind. 
The  spring  sank  into  the  summer-time,  and 
June 


Fell  into  autumn  and  her  fruitful  store; 
December  comes  again  to  the  old  tune, 
And   we   are   lovers   still — and   nothing 
more. 

Now,  wny  should  we  delay  our  own  delight, 

Defer  the  hope,  and  wait  for  evil  days 
To    cover   love's  young   blossom    with   a 
blight, 

And  sow  the  seeds  of  sorrow  on  our  ways? 
If  we  indeed  have  love  enough  to  live, 

Why  should  we  make  a  fear  that  is  not 

now? 
Or  why  should  Fortune  any  blessing  give, 

While  we  care  not  to  woo  her  with  a  vo\v  ? 


There  is  a  time  when  life  is  life  indeed, 

When  love  is  love  and  all  about  it  bright; 
It  is  betrothal  when  great  joy  has  need 

Of  sleep  to  cool  the  hot  heart  of  delight: 
Because  of  you  this  sweetness  came  to  me, 

And  with  a  chain  of  flowers  my  life  was 

led, 
But  after  all  what  may  the  meaning  be? 

Why,  a  betrothal  if  we  may  not  wed. 


Look  at  this  picture,  love;  do  you  not  see 
The  sun  flush  on  the  summer's  youngest 

bloom  ? 

Here  are  three  sisters ;  one  of  them  will  be 
A   wife,  and   two    will   make   their  own 

dark  doom : 
See  how  they  play  with  Love;  but  he  will 

bring 

A  bitter  day  when  they  shall  both  atone. 
And  find  too  late  the  knowledge  and  its  sting, 
That  maids  who   play    with    Love  may 
play  alone. 

Why  will  you  give  me  but  a  little  love, 

And  spread  it  over  many  droning  days? 
Why  for  a  little  fault  will  you  reprove, 

And  spoil  the  harmony  of  pleasant  wavs? 
If  you  will  serve  me  so,  then  let  the  evi> 

Of  my  own  fault  accuse  me  while  I  live; 
But  I  may  learn  it  was  not  all  a  prize 

To  win  a  woman  who  could  not  forgive. 


PLAYIXG    WITH    LOVL. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


It  may  be  that  you  will  not  speak  again, 

But  I  have  felt  that  I  must  come  to  say 
That  you  have  filled  my  weary  weeks  with 

pain, 

And  I  have  had  no  peace  for  many  a  day : 
Though    you    still    hold    the   power   that 

would  bless 
My   years,    and   with   full  joy   my   life 

endow, 

Yet  your  unkindness  brings  me  to  confess, 
I  never  loved  you  less  than  I  love  now. 


Now  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  do  rejoice, 

And  still  I  do  repent  for  my  hard  speech, 
Which  turns  upon  me  now  that  your  dear 

voice 
lias  placed  the  golden  fruit  within  my 

reach : 

Let  us  be  married  in  the  early  spring, 
When  blossoms  bring  new  honey  for  the 

bees, 
And  when  new  daisies  come  and  new  birds 

sing, 

And  new  green   leaves  come  out  upon 
old  trees. 

— GUY  ROSLYN. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 

A  PATJIKT1C  HALLAD. 

BEN  BATTLE  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war's  alarms; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  he  laid  down  his  arms. 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot : 

For  here  I  leave  mv  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  foot." 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs: 
Said  he,  "  The 're  onlv  pegs; 

But  there  's  as  wooden  members  quite, 
As  represent  my  legs." 
*6 


Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid — 

Her  name  was  Nelly  G*ay; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 

When  he  devoured  his  pay. 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs. 

Began  to  take  them  off. 

"O,  Nelly  Gray!  O,  Nelly  Gray! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform." 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  lie  was  blithe  and  brave; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave. 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes 

-Your  love  I  did  allow; 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now." 

"  O,  Nelly  Gray!  O,  Nelly  Gray; 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches." 

"Why  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the 
feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms." 

"  O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray! 

I  know  why  you  refuse: 
Though  I  've  no  feet,  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes. 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  vou  will  be  my  death; — alas! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell!  " 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 
And  then  removed  his  pegs; 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off, — of  course 
He  soon  was  oft"  his  legs. 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town ; 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down. 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


THE  WELCOME. 

COME  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn- 
ing; 
Come  when  you  Ye  looked   for,  or  come 

without  warning; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before 

you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 

I'll  adore  you! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 

plighted ; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told   me  was 

blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 

than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers 

don 't  sever ! " 

I  '11  pull  you  sweet  flowers  to  wear  if  you 
choose  them, 

Or,  after  you  Ve  kissed  them,  they  Ml  lie  on 
my  bosom; 

I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to 
inspire  you; 

I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't 
tire  you. 

Oh!  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  sum- 
mer-vexed farmer, 


Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without 
armor; 

I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise- 
above  me, 

Then,  wandering,  I  '11  wish  you  in  silence 
to  love  me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff 

and  the  eyrie; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of 

the  fairv; 
We'll  look  on  the  stars  and  we  '11  list  to  the 

river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you 

can  give  her. 

Oh!   she'll    whisper  you, — "Love  as  un- 
changeably beaming, 
And  trust,  when  in  secret  most  tunefully 

streaming 
Till  the  starlignt  of  heaven  above  us  shall 

quiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's 

river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the 

morning; 
Come  when  you're  looked    for,  or  come 

without  warning; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  Ml  find  here  before 

you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  the  more  I'll 

adore  you ! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 

-  plighted; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  wa« 

blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 

than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "True  lover- 

don't  sever!" 

THOMAS  DAVIS. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Strait  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I  can  a  passage  see 

In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a  fit  expression  find, 
Or  a  language  to  mv  mind 


THE    WELCOME. 


ILLUSTRATED  POET  HI'  AXD  SONG. 


(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant! 
Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate; 
For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so, 
That,  whichever  thing  I  shew, 
The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrained  hyperbole, 
And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  for  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine! 
Bacchus's  black  servant,  negro  fine! 
Sorcerer !  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thv  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women !  Thou  thy  siege  dost  lav 
Much,  too,  in  the  female  wav, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  lab'ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  height'ning 

steam, 

Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem  ; 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And  for  those  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  chimeras, 
Monsters — that  who  see  us,  fear  us; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  can'st  shew 
What  his  deity  can  do — 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle? 


Some  few  vapors  thou  may'st  raise, 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze ; 
But  to  the  reins  and  noble  heart 
Can'st  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born ! 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 
Wanting  thee,  tnat  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than,  before, 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant:  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume — 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant; 
Thou  art  the  only  manlv  scent. 

Stinkingest  of  the  stinking  kind! 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind ! 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foyson, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison? 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite  • 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue! 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you! 
'T  was  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee; 
None  e'er  prospered  who  defamed  thee; 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 
Such  as  perplext  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And,  instead  of  dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  honey,  sweetheart,  bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  cockatrice  and  siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that 's  evil, 
Witch,  hyena,  mermaid,  devil, 
Eth-iop,  wench,  and  blackamoor, 
Monkey,  ape,  and  twenty  more — 
Friendly  trait'ress,  loving  foe — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 
But  no  other  way  they  know, 
A  contentment  to  express 
Borders  so  upon  excess 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  from  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what's  "nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow 's  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing,  whatever, 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Cuiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave 

thee. 

For  thy  sake,  tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  hate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced, 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Catherine  of  Spain; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  tobacco  boys ; 
Where  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife; 


And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces; 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  unconquered  Canaanite. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


ONCE  AND  FOR  AYE. 

HE  sang  as  he  lay  on  a  Highland  mountain, 
That  English  knight  who  had  never 

known  love, 
"  What    song    so    sweet  as   the   chiming 

fountain  ? 

What  blue  so  blue  as  the  heaven  above?  " 
Fond  heart !  —  for  nearer  and  nearer  drew 
A  sweeter  voice  and  an  eye  more  blue. 

"O  what  can  blush  by  the  purple  heather? 
What  gold  with  the  gorse-flower  dare 
compare?  " 

He  turned,  fond  heart,  and  found  them  to- 
gether 

On  her  glowing  cheek  and  her  glittering 
hair. 

Now   what   for   the    knight   are   the    hill 
flowers'  dyes, 

The  fountain's  voice  and  the  sapphire  skies? 

She  had  lost  her  path,  that  Lowland  lady, 
Whose  heart  had  never  a  lord  confessed; 

O  bright  she  blushed,  and  gentle  prayed  he 
Would  guide  her  over  the  mountain  crest. 

And  little  loth  was  the  gallant  knight 

To  squire  the  steps  of  that  lady  bright. 

So  he  took  her  hand,  and  they  passed  to. 

gether, 
The  knight  and  the   lady  unlearned  of 

love, 
Through  the  golden  gorse  and  the  purple 

heather — 

O  laughingly  beamed  the  blue  above. 
And  the  fountain  sang  as  their  feet  went 

by, 

The  Sibyl  fountain — "  For  aye—for  aye." 
THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  SONGS  OF  KILLARXEY." 


OXCE     AND    FOIl      AYE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


129 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK. 

YE  genii  of  the  nation, 
Who  look  with  veneration, 
And  Ireland's  desolation  onsaysingly  de- 
plore, 

Ye  sons  of  Gineral  Jackson, 
Who  thrample  on  the  Saxon, 
Attend  to  the  thransaction  upon   Shannon 
shore. 

When  William,  Duke  of  Schumbug, 
A  tyrant  and  a  humbug, 
With  cannon  and  with  thunder  on  our  city 

bore, 

Our  fortitude  and  valliance 
Insthructed  his  battalions, 
To  rispict  the  galliant  Irish  upon  Shannon 
shore. 

Since  that  capitulation, 

No  city  in  the  nation 
So  grand  a  reputation  could  boast  before, 

As  Limerick  prodigious, 

That  stands  with  quays  and  bridges, 
And  ships  up  to  the  windies  of  the  Shannon 
shore. 

A  chief  of  ancient  line, 
'Tis  William  Smith  O'Brine, 
Riprisints  this   darling  Limerick  this  ten 

years  or  more; 
Oh  the  Saxons  can  't  endure 
To  see  him  on  the  flure, 
And  thrimble  at  the  Cicero  from  Shannon 
shore ! 

This  valiant  son  of  Mars 
Had  been  to  visit  Par's, 
That  land  of  revolution,  that  grows  the  tri- 
color; 

And  to  welcome  his  return 
From  pilgrimages  furren, 
We  invited  him  to   tay  on   the   Shannon 
shore. 

Then  we  summoned  to  our  board 
Young  Meagher  of  the  sword; 


'T  is  he  will  sheathe  that  battle-axe  in  Saxon 

gore; 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast 
We  bade  to  our  repast, 
To  dthrink  a  dish  of  coffee  on  the  Shannon 
shore. 

Convaniently  to  hould 
These  patriots  so  bould, 
We  took  the  opportunity  of  Tim  Doolan's 

store ; 

And  with  ornamints  and  banners 
(As  becomes  gintale  good  manners) 
We  made  the  loveliest  tay-room  upon  Shan- 
non shore. 

'T  would  binifit  your  sowls 
To  see  the  butthered  rowls, 
The    sugar-tongs     and     sangwidges    and 

craim  gavlore, 

And  the  muffins  and  the  crumpets, 
And  the  band  of  harps  and  thrumpets, 
To   celebrate   the   sworry    upon  Shannon 
shore. 

Sure  the  imperor  of  Bohay 
Would  be  proud  to  dthrink  the  tay 
That  Misthress  Biddy  Rooney  for  O'Brine 

did  pour; 

And,  since  the  davs  of  Strongbow, 
There  never  was  such  Congo — 
Mitchil  dthrank  six  quarts  of  it — by  Shan- 
non shore. 

But  Clarndon  and  Corry 
Connellan  beheld  this  sworry 
With   rage  and    imulation   in  their  black 

heart's  core; 

And  they  hired  a  gang  of  ruffins 
To  interrupt  the  muffins, 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  Congo  on  the 
Shannon  shore. 

When  full  of  tay  and  cake, 
O'Brine  began  to  spake, 
But  juice  a  one  could  hear  him,  for  a  sud- 
den roar 

Of  a  ragamuffin  rout 
Began  to  yell  and  shout, 
And    frighten    the   propriety  of  Shannon 
shore. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


As  Smith  O'Brien  harangued, 
They-batthered  and  they  banged; 
Tim  Doolan's  doors  and  windies  down  they 

tore; 

They  smashed  the  lovely  windies 
(Hung  with  muslin  from  the  Indies), 
Purshuing  of  their  shindies  upon  Shannon 
shore. 

With  throwing  of  brickbats, 
Drowned  puppies  and  dead  rats, 
These  ruffin  democrats  themselves  did 

lower ; 

Tin  kettles,  rotten  eggs, 
Cabbage-stalks,  and  wooden  legs, 
They  flung  among  the  patriots  of  Shannon 
shore. 

Oh,  the  girls  began  to  scrame, 
And  upset  the  milk  and  crame; 
And  the  honorable  jintlemin  they  cursed 

and  swore: 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast, 
'T  was  he  that  looked  aghast, 
When  they  roasted  him  in  effigy  by  Shan- 
non shore. 

Oh,  the  lovely  tay  was  spilt 
On  that  day  of  Ireland's  guilt; 
isays  Jack    Mitchil,    "I    am    kilt!      Boys, 

where's  the  back  door? 
'Tis  a  national  disgrace; 
Let  me  go  and  veil  me  face !  " 
And  he  boulted  with  quick  pace  from  the 
,    Shannon  shore. 

"  Cut  down  the  bloddy  horde !  " 
Says  Meagher  of  the  sword, 
"  This  conduct  would  disgrace  any  blacka- 
moor ; " 

But  millions  were  arrayed, 
So  he  shaythed  his  battle-blade, 
Rethrayting  undismayed  from  the  Shannon 
shore. 

Immortal  Smith  O'Brine 
Was  raging  like  a  line; 
'T  would  have  done  your  sowl  good  to  have 
Jieard  him  roar; 


In  his  glory  he  arose, 
And  he  rushed  upon  his  foes, 
But  they  hit  him  on  the  nose  by  the  Shan- 
non shore. 


Then  the  futt  and  the  dthragoons 
In  squadthrons  and  platoons, 
With  their   music    playing   chunes,  down 

upon  us  bore ; 
And  they  bate  the  rattatoo, 
And  the  Peelers  came  in  view, 
And  ended  the   shaloo  on    the   Shannon 

shore. 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


THE  IVY-MAIDEN. 

YOUR    face,    sweet    Constance,    and   sui 

roundings — 
The  ivy-wreath  that  rings  you  round — 

Give  full  excuse  for  wild  heart-bounding* 
And  voice  more  tremulous  in  sound. 

But  Ivy's  maidens  "  weep  and  ring," 
And  you  love  best  to  laugh  and  tease; 

Methinks  some  meaning  marks  the  thing- 
Ay,  ivy  means  "  intent  to  please." 

But,  dearest,  at  this  fatal  juncture, 

I  own,  as  empty  is  my  purse 
As  bladder  suffering  from  a  puncture; 

So,  as  for  better  or  for  worse 
I  can  take  no  one — or,  believe  me, 

I  'd  risk  my  chance  of  winning  you — 
Say,  child,  will  you  as  friend  receive  me, 

Your  garland  speaks  of  friendship  true! 

What!  tears  in  those  blue  eyes  indignant, 

And  quivering  in  those  laughing  lips? 
Was  then  my  proffer  so  malignant! 

Ah,  well,  the  blind  boy  often  trips! 
Suppose  this  New  Year  saw  a  twining 

Of  bridal  wreaths  for  you  and  me, 
I  think  'twould  know  of  no  repining: 

Green  ivy  means  "  Fidelity." 


THE    IVV    MAIDEX. 


N 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


'33 


O  sweet  New  Year!     O  sweet  beginning 

Of  strange  new  life  to  either  soul ! 
O  sudden  start,  triumphant  winning, 

The  start  of  life,  and  yet  its  goal ! 
Sweet  Constance,  with  thine  ivy-wreathing, 

Be  to  thine  own  surroundings  true; 
Nay,  blush  not  at  this  whisper'd  breathing 

That  ivy  tells  of  marriage  too! 

B.    MONTGOMERIE    RANKING. 


MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 
BALL 

GIVEN    TO    THE    NEPAULESE    AMBASSADOR 

BY    T^IE    PENINSULAR    AND    ORIENTAL 

COMPANY. 

OH  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? 

Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er: 
I  '11  tell  you  all  about  the  ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  ambassador. 
Begor!  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate 

At  which  I  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 

Of  th'  Oriental  company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Acljilleses. 
"  We  '11  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "  Al- 
mack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 
And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand, 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes, 
.  And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I  'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was! 

At  ten,  before  the  ball-room  door 

His  moighty  excellency  was; 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd — 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 


His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 
Into  the  dooway  followed  him; 

And  oh  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 
As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him! 

The  noble  chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince  to  that  black  prince 

The  welcome  of  his  company. 
Oh  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys  you  saw  there  was;, 
And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was! 

This  gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 
(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals;) 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

O  Pat,  such  girls,  such  jukes  and  earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Porty- 
geese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there; 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O'Grady  there. 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked 
like  Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  pecu- 
liar 

Well  in  her  robes  of  gauze,  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first 

When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was), 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 
And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufterin, 

And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife — 
I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff"  her  in, 


'34 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 
And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  /go  there ; 

And  the  widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 
And  the  marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  jukes  and  earls,  and   diamonds  and 
pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues!)  I  spied 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
Oh,  there  's  one  I  know,  bedad  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there; 
And  I  'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there! 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


THEY  COME!  THE  MERRY  SUM- 
MER MONTHS. 

THEY  come!  the  merry  summer  months  of 
beauty,  song,  and  flowers; 

They   come!    the  gladsome   months   that 
bring  thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart!  and  walk  abroad;  fling 
cark  and  care  aside; 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peace- 
ful waters  glide; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriar-    \ 
chal  tree, 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  skv    i 
in  rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful 

to  the  hand ; 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  bree/e 

is  sweet  and  bland ; 
The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding 

courteously ; 
It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to 

bless  and  welcome  thee ; 
And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks 

— they  now  are  silvery  gray — 
That    blissful    breeze    is    wantoning,   and    > 

whispering,  "  Be  gay !  " 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean 
of  yon  sky 


But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  gi\  <. 

it  melody; 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread, 

all  gleaming  like  red  gold; 
And  hark!  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their 

merry  course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who> 

far  above  this  earth, 
Can   make  a  scoff"  of  its   mean  joys,  and 

vent  a  noble  mirth. 

But  soft!  mine  ear   upcaught    a    sound, — 

from  yonder  wood  it  came ! 
The   spirit   of   the   dim    green   glade   did 

breathe  his  own  glad  name; — 
Yes,  it  is  he!  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart 

from  all  his  kind. 
Slow  spells   his  beads   monotonous  to  the 

soft  western  wind; 
Cuckoo!    Cuckoo!    he    sings    again, — his 

notes  are  void  of  art ; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound   the 

deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good    Lord!    it    is    a   gracious   boon    for 

thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To    smell    again    those    summer   flowers 

beneath  this  summer  tree! 
To  suck  once  more  in  everv   breath  their 

little  souls  away, 
And  feed   my   fancy    with   fond  dreams  <>t 

youth's  bright  summer  dav, 
When,    rushing   forth,    like  untamed  colt, 

the  reckless  truant  boy 
Wandered   through  green    woods   all   dav 

long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy ! 

I  'm  sadder  now, — I   have  had  cause;  but 

O,  I  'm  proud  to  think 
That   each   pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  \  on- 

I  vet  delight  to  drink  ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,   hill,   valley,  stream, 

the  calm,  unclouded  skv. 
Still  mingle  music  with  mv  dreams,  as  in 

the  days  gone  by 
When  summer's   loveliness  and   light  t'alJ 

round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I  '11    bear   indeed    life's    heaviest   curse — a 

heart  that  hath  waxed  old! 

Wl  I.I.I  AM     MoTIIERWELL. 


M.  ftl/fr    /r 


THEY    COME,    THE    MERRY    SUMMER     MONTHS. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


'37 


THE  PHANTOM. 

AGAIN  I  sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat; 
And  shade  and  sunshine  chase  each  other 

O'er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 

But  the  sweet-brier's  arms   have   wrestled 
upwards 

In  the  summers  that  are  past, 
And  the  willow  trails  its  branches  tower 

Than  when  I  saw  them  last. 

They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 
From  out  the  haunted  room — 

To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful, 
With  silence  and  with  gloom 

And  manv  kind,  remembered  faces 

Within  the  doorway  come — 
Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 

Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 

The  songs  she  loved  to  hear; 
They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  garlands, 

Whose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 

And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door. 
Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome, 

Come  back  to  me  once  more. 

And  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 
I  think  she  has  but  newlv  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She  stays  without,  perchance,  a  moment, 
To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments — 
1  ler  light  step  on  the  stair ! 

O  fluttering  heart!  control  thy  tumult, 

Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 
My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 

Her  coming  brings  to  me! 


She  tarries  long:  but  lo!  a  whisper 

Beyond  the  open  door — 
And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 

A  shadow  on  the  floor ! 

Ah!  't  is  the  whispering  pine  that  calls  me, 
The  vine  whose  shadow  stravs; 

And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await  her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heaft  grows  sick  with  weary  wait- 
ing. 

As  many  a  time  before : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 
Yet  never  passes  o'er. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


A  CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG. 

Et  remigem  cantus  ftortalur. 

QyiNTILIAN. 

FAINTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep 

time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We  '11  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl: — 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore 
Oh!  sweetly  we  '11  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past! 

Utawa's  tide!  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  afloat  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers — 
Oh !  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow!  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past! 
THOMAS  MOORE. 


'38 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

"  WHAT  voice,  what  harp,  are  those  we  hear 

Beyond  the  gate  in  chorus? 
Go,  page! — the  lay  delights  our  ear; 

We'll  have  it  sung  before  us!" 
So  speaks  the  king:  the  stripling  flies — 
lie  soon  returns;  his  master  cries — 

"  Bring  in  the  hoary  minstrel!" 

"  Hail,  princes  mine!  Hail,  noble  knights! 

All  hail,  enchanting  dames! 
What  starry  heaven !  What  blinding  lights ! 

Whose  tongue  may  tell  their  names? 
In  this  bright  hall,  amid  this  blaze, 
Close,  close,  mine  eyes!    Ye  may  not  gaze 

On  such  stupendous  glories!  " 

The  minnesinger  closed  his  eyes; 

He  struck  his  mighty  lyre : 
Then  beauteous  bosoms  heaved  with  sighs, 

And  warriors  felt  on  fire ; 
The  king,  enraptured  by  the  strain, 
Commanded  that  a  golden  chain 

Be  given  the  bard  in  guerdon. 

"  Not  so!     Reserve  thy  chain,  thy  gold, 
For  those  brave  knights  whose  glances, 

Fierce  flashing  through  the  battle  bold, 
Might  shiver  sharpest  lances! 

Bestow  it  on  thy  treasurer  there — 

The  golden  burden  let  him  bear 
With  other  glittering  burdens. 

"  I  sing  as  in  the  greenwood  bush 
The  cageless  wild-bird  carols — 

The  tones  that  from  the  full  heart  gush 
Themselves  are  gold  and  laurels! 

Yet  might  I  ask,  then  thus  I  ask — 

Let  one  bright  cup  of  wine,  in  flask 
Of  glowing  gold,  be  brought  me!  " 

They  set  it  down ;  he  quaffs  it  all — 
"Oh!  draught  of  richest  flavor! 

Oh!  thrice  divinely  happy  hall 
Where  that  is  scarce  a  favor! 

If  heaven  shall  bless  ye,  think  on  me; 

And  thank  vour  God  as  I  thank  ve 
For  this  delicious  wine-cup!" 

JOIIANN  WOLFGANG  vox  GOETHE. 
Translation  of  JAM  KS  CNAKENCE  MAXGA.V. 


"  YES!" 

DEAR  hiding-place,  I  pray  you  keep 

This  secret  in  your  breast; 
O,  fold  it  sure  and  fold  it  fast, 

And  let  it  safely  rest! 
And  let  it  rest  and  let  it  lie 

Till  paling  sky  shall  show 
Through  pearly  pallor  softly  grav 

The  flush  of  morning's  glow. 

For  then — while  dawn  is  still  a  dream, 

And  all  is  hush'd  and  still — 
Some  one  will  cross  the  dewy  fields 

That  spread  below  the  hill; 
Will  swiftly  pass  through  flowering  aisles, 

And  crush  the  petals  sweet — 
Dear  hiding-place,  I  pray  you  lav 

My  secret  at  his  feet ! 

Ah,  cold  and  lifeless  seems  the  word 

My  trembling  hand  has  traced; 
He  will  not  guess  the  thousand  hopes 

Th.it  with  that  word  are  placed ! 
O,  will  he  guess  or  will  he  know? 

Dear  blossoms  at  mv  feet, 
Look  up  and  whisper  faint  and  low  : 

I  long  his  eyes  to  meet. 

Ah,  happy  letter,  you  will  feel 

His  touch  so  light  and  true! 
Ah,  happv  hand  that  draws  you  forth, 

I  would  that  I  were  you!. 
I  would  and  would  not — love  and  fear 

Make  up  so  large  a  Mini 
Within  my  foolish  heart  to  day, 

The  heart  that  he  lias  won. 

O,  have  I  lived  or  have  I  loved 

In  any  years  before? 
For  now  I  cannot  dream  of  jov. 

Save  with  him  evermore. 
I  waste  the.  davs,  the  nights,  the  hours, 

In  thoughts  that  come  and  go; 
And  vet  in  all  their  circling  flight. 

One  name  alone  thev  know. 

O,  lavish  lights  and  floating  shades, 

I  would  vou  were  no  more; 
Flv  down  and  haunt  the  midnight  glades, 

And  tell  me  dav  is  o'er! 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Dear  ivy,  keep  my  secret  safe; 

Like  him  vou  cannot  guess 
That  life  and  love  are  centered  here 

Where  I  have  written — "Yes!" 


SONG. 

STILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  \ou  were  going  to  a  feast; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found ; 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  mv  heart- 
BEN  JONSON. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

ABOU  BEX  ADHE.M  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of 

peace. 

And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
.An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
<'  What  writest  them?" — The  vision  raised 

its  head, 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord 
Answered — "The  names  of  those  who  love 

the  Lord." 
"And   is   mine   one?"  said   Abou;  "Nay, 

not  so," 

Replied  the  angel. — Abou  spoke  more  low> 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,    "  I  pray  thee, 

then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 


The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next 

night 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 
•  had  blessed — 

And,   lo!  Ben   Adhem's  name  led  all  the 

rest! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE  STEAMBOAT. 

SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surlv  slaves! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers- 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells; 
And,  flaming  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders,  foaming,  by ! 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The   sunshine    glimmering    through    the 
green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  views  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  pharos  of  the  shore. 


J42 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail; 
To-night  von  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broaci  breast  to  the  gale ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained* 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  hath  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !  hark  !   I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast — 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast! 
An  hour,  and,  w-hirled  like  winnowing  chaff 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon-staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ! 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire; 
Sleep  on — and  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
Oh,  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


ABSENCE. 

WHAT  shall   I  do   with  all   the  days  and 

hours 

That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thv  face? 
How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time 
of  grace? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, — 
Weary  with  longing?  shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of 

time? 
Shall    I,    these    mists  of   memory    locked 

within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime? 


O,  how  or  by  what  means  may  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back 

more  near? 

I  low  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until   that   blessed   time,  and  thpu   art 
here? 

1  '11  tell  thee;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  mv  thoughts  to  try 
All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy 

strains; 

For  thy  dear  sake,  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their 
minutes  pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time,  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I 
live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up 'in  me 
A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be 

thine: 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  di- 
vine. 

FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands: 
The  smith — a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  rrawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan, 
1 1  is  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat — 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can ; 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


ABSENCE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow- 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children,  coming  home  from  school, 

Look  in  at  the  open  door; 
They  love  to  see  the  naming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks,  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach — 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing — 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close — 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  has  taught! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought — 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought! 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye ! 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave — 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie! 
Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But,  thougn  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

GEORGE  HERBERT. 


VIRTUE. 

SWEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ! 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 


SONG. 

RARELY,  rarely  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  delight! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  heed  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed ; 

Even  the  signs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure : 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 

Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  delight! 
The  fresh  earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And  the  starry  night; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost; 
1  love  waves  and  winds  and  streams, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  love,  though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But,  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee : 
Thou  art  love  and  life!  oh,  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home! 
PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON. 


A  LOVE-DUET. 


Phaott  dugs  at  Sunset. 

MY  lady,  here  1  '11  linger, 

Conceal'd  by  clouds  of  night, 
Until  the  morning's  finger 

Shall  touch  the  day  with  light. 
When  darkness  round  us  closes, 

And  silence  strays  with  me, 
The  dew  from  garden  roses 

Shall  weep  sad  tears  for  thee. 
The  weary  hours  I  '11  number 

When  thou  art  lost  to  sight; 
Cut  song  shall  soothe  thy  slumber: 

My  lady-love,  good  night! 


Pliaoti  sings  at  Dawn. 
The  lily-bells  awaken, 

The  rose  no  longer  weeps, 
The  nests  are  all  forsaken ; 

But  still  my  lady  sleeps. 
Glad  daytime  gives  its  blessing, 

And  blossoms  intertwine, 
Thy  window-ledge  caressing 

With  arms  of  eglantine. 
But  still  the  hours  I  number; 

I  sorrow  for  thy  sake : 
Awaken  from  thy  slumber, 

My  lady-love,  awake! 

Phaon  sings  at  Sunrise. 
But  hark!  a  footfall  on  the  grass; 

It  is  her  voice  that  greets  the  day. 
Wake,  blossoms,  let  your  mistress  pass; 

My  lady  comes — make  way,  make  way ! 

Sappho  sings  at  Sundown. 
Farewell,  glad  sun,  my  heart  is  cold; 

Silence,  ye  birds,  my  love  is  dumb; 
Sleep,  flow'rets,  whilst  my  arms  enfold 

His  shadow — for  he  will  not  come? 

Farewell,  farewell !  see,  I  must  die 
With  fainting  for  the  loss  of  thee. 

Lost  love !  restore  me  with  a  sigh, 
And  let  thy  kisses  rain  on  me! 

My  Phaon,  'tis  our  last  farewell! 

Come  back  to  me;  I  faint  with  pain! 
When  we  are  parted  none  will  tell 

Thy  heart  to  win  me  back  again. 

Farewell!  and  when  the  ocean  wide 
Hath  parted  us,  as  it  must  part, 

One  sigh  will  draw  me  to  thy  side, 
One  kiss  will  heal  my  broken  heart. 
CLEMENT  W.  SCOTT. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALE. 

COME  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw, 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 


I 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


'49 


As  Robin  Hood  in  the-forest  stood, 
All  under  the  greenwood  tree, 

There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man, 
As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay ; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chaunted  a  roundelay. 

As^  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away  ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

"  Alas!  and  a  well-a-day !  " 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 
And  Midge,  the  miller's  son; 

Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 
When  as  he  see  them  come. 

"Stand  off!  stand  off!"  the  young  man  said, 
"  What  is  your  will  with  me?  " 

"You  must  come  before  our  master  straight 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 
Robin  asked  him  courteously, 

*'  O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 
For  my  merrv  men  and  me?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  the  voung  man  said, 
"But  five  shillings  and  a  ring; 

And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 
To  have  at  my  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en, 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 

"What   is    thv    name?"   then    said  Robin 

Hood, 

"  Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then   said   the 

young  man, 
"  My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale." 


"What    wilt  thou   give   me,"   said   Robin 
Hood, 

"In  ready  gold  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  the  young 
man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee, 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book  . 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the 
young  man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain ; 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin'. 

"  What  hast  thou  here?"  the  bishop  then 
said, 

"  I  prithee  nosv  tell  unto  me," 
'•  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

'•  Oh  welcome,  oh   welcome,"   the   bishop 

he  said ; 

"  That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 
"  You  shall  have  no    music,"  quoth  Robin 

Hood, 

"Till  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  I 
see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 
Which  was  both  grave  and  old; 

And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

"  This   is   not  a  fit   match,"  quoth  Robin 
Hood, 

"  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here; 
For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 

The  bride  shall  choose  her  own  dear." 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Then   Robin    Hood  put    his    horn  to  his 
mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three; 
When  four-and-twenty  yeomen  bold, 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row, 
The  first  man  was  Allen-a-Dale,1 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thy  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 
"  Young  Allen,- as  I  hear  say; 

And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 
Before  we  depart  away." 

"  That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  cried, 
"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand; 

They  shall  be  three  times  asked  into  the 

church, 
As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Robin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop's  coat, 
And  put  it  upon  Little  John; 

"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  the  Robin  said, 
"  This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 

The  people  began  to  laugh; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  into  church, 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough, 

"Who   gives  me  this  maid?"   said   Little 
John, 

Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "That  do  I; 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 

Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen ; 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  green- 
wood, 
Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

ANONYMOUS. 


FAIRER  THAN  THEE. 

FAIRER  than  thee,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee ; — 
There  is  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 


Not  the  glad  sun,  beloved, 
Bright  though  it  beams; 

Not  the  green  earth,  beloved, 
Silver  with  streams ; 

Not  the  gay  birds,  beloved, 

Happy  and  free ; 
Yet  there's  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Not  the  clear  day,  beloved, 

Glowing  with  light; 
Not  (fairer  still  beloved) 

Star  crowned  night. 

Truth,  in  her  might,  beloved, 

Grand  in  her  sway; 
Truth  with  her  eyes,  beloved, 

Clearer  than  day; 

Holy  and  pure,  beloved, 

Spotless  and  free, 
Is  the  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Guard  well  thy  soul,  beloved, 

Truth  dwelling  there, 
Shall  shadow  forth,  beloved, 

Her  image  rare. 

Then  shall  I  deem,  beloved, 

That  thou  art  she ; 
And  there  '11  be  naught,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  MATCH. 

IF  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  and  flowerful  closes, 

Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 


FAIRER    THAN    THEE, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


*53 


If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I,  your  love;  were  death, 

We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I,  your  love,  were  death. 


If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons, 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons, 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow, 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy ; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady, 

And  night  were  bright  like  day: 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  Mav. 


If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

ALGERNON  CHAKI.KS  SWINIH  KNK 


AN  AUTUMN  IDYL. 

On,  knew  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
The  happiest  he!  who  far  from  public  rage. 
Deep  in  the  vale,  with  a  choice  few  retired, 
Drinks  the  pure  pleasures  of  the  rural  life. 
What  though  the  dome  be  wanting,  whose 

proud  gate, 
Each  morning,    vomits    out  the  sneaking 

crowd, 

Of  flatterers  fals.e,  and  in  their  turn  abused? 
Vile  intercourse!      What  though  the  glit- 
tering robe 

Of  every  hue  reflected  light  can  give, 
Or  floating  loose,  or  stiff  with  mazy  gold, 
The  pride  and  gaze  of  fools!  oppress  him 

not? 
What  though,  from  utmost  land  and  sea 

purvey'd, 

From  him  each  rarer  tributary  life 
Bleeds  not,  and  his  insatiate  table  heaps 
With  luxury,   and   death?     What   though 

his  bowl 
Flames  not  with  costly  juice;  nor  sunk  in 

beds, 

Oft  of  gay  care,  he  tosses  out  the  night, 
Or  melts  the  thoughtless  hours  in  idle  state? 
What  though  he  knows  not  those  fantastic 

joys 

That  still  amuse  the  wanton,  still  deceive: 
A  face  of  pleasure,  but  a  heart  of  pain ; 
Their  hollow  moments  undelighted  all? 
Sure  peace  is  his;  a  solid  life,  estranged 
To  disappointment,  and  fallacious  hope; 
Rich  in  content,  in  Nature's  bounty  rich, 
In  herbs  and  fruits.     Whatever  greens  the 

Spring, 
When    heaven    descends    in   showers;  or 

bends  the  bough 
When  Summer  reddens,  and  when  Autumn 

beams ; 

Or  in  the  Wintry  glebe  whatever  lies 
Conceal'd,  and  fattens  with  the  richest  sap: 
These  are  not  wanting ;  nor  the  milky  drove, 
Luxuriant,  spread  o'er  all  the  lowing  vale; 
Nor  bleating  mountains;  nor  the  chide  of 

streams, 

And  hum  of  bees,  inviting  sleep  sincere 
Into  the  guiltless  breast,  beneath  the  shade. 


'54 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND 


Or  thrown  at  large  amid  the  fragrant  hay. 
Nor  aught   besides   of  prospect,  grove  or 

song, 
Dim  grottoes,  gleaming  lakes  and  fountains 

clear. 

Here  too  dwells  simple  Truth;  plain  Inno- 
cence; 

Unsullied  Beauty ;  sound  unbroken  Youth, 
Patient  of  labor,  with  a  little  pleased; 
Health  ever  blooming;  unambitious  Toil, 
Calm  Contemplation,  and  poetic  Ease. 

Let  others  brave  the  flood  in  quest  of  gain, 
And  beat,  for  joyless  months,  the  gloomy 

wave : 

Let  such  as  deem  it  glorv  to  destrov, 
Rush  into  blood,  the  sack  of  cities  seek, 
Unpierced,  exulting  in  the  widow's  wail, 
The  virgin's  shriek,  and  infant's  trembling 

cry: 

Let  some,  far  distant  from  their  native  soil, 
«  Urged  on  by  want  or  harden'd  avarice, 
Find  other  lands  beneath  another  sun : 
Let  this  through  cities  work  his  eager  way> 
By  legal  outrage  and  established  guile, 
The  social-sense  extinct;  and  that  ferment 
Mad  into  tumult  the  seditious  herd, 
Or  melt  them  down  to  slavery :  let  these 
Insnare  the  wretched  in  the  toils  of  law, 
Fomenting  discord,  and  perplexing  right, 
An  iron  race!  and  those  of  fairer  front, 
But  equal  inhumanity,  in  courts, 
Delusive  pomp,  and  dark  cabals,  delight; 
Wreathe  the  deep  bow,  diffuse  the  lying 

smile, 

And  tread  the  weary  labyrinth  of  state :  — 
While  he,  from  all  the  stormy  passions  free 
That  restless  men  involve,  hears,  and  but 

hears, 

At  distance  safe,  the  human  tempest  roar, 
Wrapp'd  close  in  conscious   peace.      The 

fall  of  kings. 

The  rage  of  nations,  and  the  crush  of  states, 
Move  not  the  man  who,  from  the  world 

escaped, 

In  still  retreats,  and  flowery  solitudes, 
To  Nature's  voice  attends,  from  month  to 

month 
And   day   to  dav,   through    the  revolving 

year : 
Admiring,  -ees  her  in  every  shape; 


Feels  all  her  sweet  emotions  at  his  heart. 
Takes  what  she  liberal  gives,  nor  thinks 

of  more. 
He,    when   young    Spring    protrudes    the 

bursting  gems, 

Marks  the  first  bud,  and  sucks  the  health- 
ful gale 

Into  his  freshen'd  soul.     Her  genial  hours 
He  full  enjoys;  and  not  a  beauty  blows, 
And  not  an  opening  blossom  breathes  in 

vain. 

In  summer,  he  beneath  the  living  shade. 
Such  as  o'er  frigid  Tempe  wont  to  wave, 
Or  Hemus  cool,  reads  what  the  Muse,  of 

these, 

Perhaps,  has  in  immortal  numbers  sung; 
Or  what  she  dictates  writes :  and,  oft  an 

eye 

Shot  round,  rejoices  in  the  vigorous  vear. 
When  Autumn's  yellow  lustre  gilds  the 

world, 

And  tempts  the  sickled  swain  into  the  field, 
Seized  by  the  general  joy,  his  heart  distends 
With  gentle  throes;  and,  through  the  tepid 

gleams 

Deep  musing,  then  he  best  exerts  his  song. 
E'en  Winter  wild,  to  him  is  full  of  bliss.     • 
The  mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste 
Abrupt  and  deep,  stretch'd  o'er  the  buried 

earth, 
Awake  to  solemn   thought.     At  night  the 

skies 

Disclosed,  and  kindled  by  refining  frost, 
Pour  every  lustre  on  th'  exalted  eve. 
A  friend,  a  book,  the  stealing  hours  secure, 
And  mark  them  down  for  wisdom.     With 

swift  wing, 

O'er  land  and  sea  imagination  roams; 
Or  truth,  divinely  breaking  on  his  mind. 
Elates  his  being,  and  unfolds  his  powers; 
Or  in  his  breast  heroic  virtue  burns. 
The  touch  of  kindred  too  and  love  he  feeN: 
The  modest  eye,  whose  beams  on  his  alone 
Ecstatic  shine;  the  little  strong  embrace 
Of  prattling  children,   twined  around  his 

neck, 

And  emulous  to  please  him,  calling  forth 
The  fond  parental  soul.     Nor  purpose  gay% 
Amusement,    dance,   or   song,   he  sternly 
-corns; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND 


'57 


For  happiness  and  true  philosophy 

Are  of  the  social,  still,  and  smiling  kind. 

This  is  the  life  which  those  who  fret  in 

guilt, 

And  guiltv  cities,  never  knew;  the  life, 
Led  by  primeval  ages,  uncorrupt, 
When    Angels    dwelt,    and    GOD    himself 

with  man! 

— JAMES  THOMPSON. 


AT  A  MODERN  SHRINE. 

WITH  a  spray  of  shower-wet  lilac  in  your 

hand, 

There  you  stand ; 

And  an  April  sun  is  g-linting  on  your  hair. 
Are  you  not  incarnate  Spring? 
Can  I  limn  you?     'Twere  a  thing 
That  might  drive  a  defter  artist  to  despair. 

May  not  fancy  hear  Arcadian  *heep-bells 

tinkle, 

As  you  sprinkle 
Diamond  droplets  from  that  fragrant  purple 

spire  ? 

Is  the  hyacinth's  own  hue 
Of  a  sweeter,  suaver  blue 
Than  your  eyes  of  soft  and  silken-shaded 
fire? 

Yet  no  unsubstantial  allegoric  thing, 

Like  the  Spring 

Of  the  poets  and  the  painters,  love,  are  you 
Not  a  sylph,  but  sweetly  human, 
And  a  very,  very  woman, 
Though  you  look  as  though  compact   of 
sun  and  dew. 

And  you  will  not,  like  a  vision,  melt  in 

air, 

If  I  dare 

To  engirdle  you  with  merely  mortal  arm  : 
Proudly  blest  to  so  environ 
Such  a  super-dainty  siren, 
Unafraid  of  ghostly  flight,  or  evil  charm. 


You  're    a  merry   mortal    maiden,  and  no 

myth, 

Like  Lilith, 
Or   the   briny    beauties   shunned    by  sage 

Ul vsses; 

Your  drift  of  sunny  hair 
Is  no  silky-subtle  snare, 
And  your  lips  were  never  shaped  for  rrucl 
kisses. 

Yet  you  catch  and  keep  my  heart,  and  show 

no  mercy,  Little  Circe, 
And  in  sooth  I'm  quite  resigned  to  such  ;i 

capture. 

Who  'd  resist  or  turn  a  railer 
At  so  generous  a  gaoler? 
Lo!  I  yield  to  love's  restraint  with  readv 
rapture. 

Ay,  your  voice   is    very    sweet   and   most 

seductive, 
Yet  productive 

Of  no  peril,  and  no  sudden  pang,  and  sharp. 
Near  vour  swift  and  sweeping  finder. 
'Tis  as  safe  as  sweet  to  linger. 
For  you  play  on  the  piano — not  the  harp ! 

So!  you  shake  a  saucy  head,  and   MVCUI    1 

flatter! 

Well,  what  matter? 

I  prefer  you  much  to  all  the  classic  ladio. 

Be  they  goddesses  or  graces, 

And  whatever  be  their  places, 

From  the  heaven  kist  Olympus  down  to — 

Hades! 

"There    is    nothing    very   classical  about 

you  ? " — 

Well,  I  doubt  you, 
You  've   a   soft   Ionic   air,   a  grace  that 's 

Attic; 

Yet  I  own  you're  not  antique, 
And  for  English  over  Greek, 
I  avow  that  I  've  a  preference  emphatic. 

There    is    many   a   little   trifler    with   the 

Muses, 
Who  abuses 
Everything  that  is  post-Phidian  and  pretty ; 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AXD  SOX(,. 


But  all  loveliness  is  no  man's 
And  the  Grecians,  and  the  Romans, 
Did  not  turn  out  a  Turner  or  an  Ettv. 

I  think  that  theirs  was  not  the  only  Charis, 

And  that  Paris 
Might   distribute   a   whole   orchard,    love, 

to-day, 

And  vet  appear  invidious; 
Praxiteles  and  Phidias 
Shake   hands    with   Leech   and  Leighton 
and  Millais. 

I  am  sure  your  hair  has  hyacinthine  grace, 

And  your  face 

Is  as  sweet  and  pure  as  any  marble  Clyte; 
And,    although    you  're    scarce    at 

home 

In  the  clouds  or  on  the  foam, 
You  're  a  perfect  terra  fir  ma  Aphrodite. 

Did  not  Gibson  perpetrate  a  tinted  "Venus? 

(Which,  between  us, 

Was  a  saucer-eyed  and  saftVon-hued  delu- 
sion) 

But  I  swear,  mv  darling,  that  you 
Are  like  poor  Pygmalion's  statue, 
When  just  flushing  with  life's  roseate  suf- 
fusion. 

J  f  you  're  scarcely  statuesque,  vou  're  sweet 

and  simple, 
And  that  dimple 

That  is  lurking  underneath  your  lower  lip, 
Is  a  charm  the  marble  misses; 
OhJ  a  fig  for  Parian  kisses 
While  from  such  a  rosy  chalice  I  may  sip. 

Let  Anacreon,  let  Horace  and  Tibullus, 

Or  Catullus, 
Sing  of  Lalage  and  Pyrrha  and  the  rest  of 

them, 

I  '11  back  my  British  beauty, 
From  her  chignon  to  her  shoe-tie, 
To  compete  in  grace  and  sweetness  with 
the  best  of  them. 

Oh!   you  sav  my  pretty  talk  is  most  mis- 
leading— 
Special  pleading! 


Now,  that  really  is  exceedingly  ungracious. 
I  protest  that  my  defence 
Of  the  present's  no  pretence, 

And  my  praise  of  your  sweet  self  is  most 
veracious. 

I  've  a  very  great  respect  for  Attic  art, 
For  my  part, 

Yet  I  think,  in  spite  of  ultra-classic  sages, 
That  the  grand  Hellenic  story 
Don  't  exhaust  creation's  glory, 

And  that  Nature's  is  a  book  of  many  pages. 

I  believe  that,  could  I  see  a  Grecian  goddess 

In  a  bodice 
Poppy-hued,  and  skirts  the  color  of  the 

wheat; 

With  a  spray  of  lilac  blossom 
In  her  chastely-covered  bosom, 
I  should   find   my  British  darling  just  as 
sweet. 

Love  and  loveliness  can  never  be  antique, 

And  the  Greek 

No  monopoly  of  either  I  '11  allow; 
And  I  really  do  not  care 
For  the  whole  of  Lempriere. 
While  to  such  a  modern  goddess  I  may 
bow. 

E.  J.  M. 


FIDELITY. 

A  BARKING  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox ; 
He  halts, — and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks : 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy — 

With  something,  as  the  shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry; 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height; 


AT    A    MODERN"    SHRINE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


161 


Nor  shout  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear. 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  below ! 

Far  in  the  bosom   of  Helvellvn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land, — 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer; 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak 
In  symphony  austere ; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud, 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud; 
And  sunbeams ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past; 
But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 


Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  awhile, 
The  shepherd  stood ;  then  makes  his  way 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground. 
The  appalled  discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear! 

At  length  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear. 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  dog  had  been  through  three  months 

space 
A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 


Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  that  day 

When  this  ill-fated  traveller  died, 

The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 

Or  by  his  master's  side. 

How  nourished  here   through   such    lon< 

time 

He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

0  READER  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree! 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well,  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 

Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist's  sophistries 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen; 
No   grazing   cattle,    through  their  prickly 

round, 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves 
appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eye 

And  moralize; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a  pleasant 

rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad,  perchance,  I  might 

appeai- 
Harsh  and  austere — 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 
Reserved  and  rude; 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I  'd  be, 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 


162 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I 
know, 

Some  harshness  show, 
All  vain  asperities  I,  day  by  day, 

Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  holly-leaves  their  fadeless  hues  display 

Less  bright  than  they ; 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree? 

So,  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng; 
So  would  I  seem,  amid  the  young  and  gay, 

More  grave  than  they ; 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


BY  THE  LILIES. 

WHITE  swans   beside  the  lilies,  the  lilies 

golden-eyed, 
The  lilies  white  and  foam  tipp'd,  in  snowy 

dress  of  bride; 
Their  broad  green  leaflets  floating  upon  the 

silver  stream, 
And,  ah !  the  fairest  lily  drifting  in  a  dream ; 

With  paddles  deftly  balanced  by  her  small 
fingers  white, 

Her  light  canoe  slow  moving,  mid  the 
rushes  out  of  sight; 

Her  golden  hair  low  floating  adown  the 
vest  of  blue, 

Her  sweet  eyes  on  the  river  fill'd  with  ten- 
der dew. 

If    there   -Mas  a   time   when   elfies,   when 

brownies,  and  when  fays 
Stole  the  heart  from  loving  manhood,  sure 

have  come  again  those  davs: 


One  may  dream  it,  one  must  feel  it,  when  in 
balmy  summer  air, 

One's  heart  away  is  stolen  by  sweet  win- 
some girlhood  fair. 

— ANONYMOUS. 


THE  PAINTER'S  WALK. 


IN    THE    WOOD. 

(The  Husband  speaks.) 

BETWEEN  gray  trunks  the  curving  path- 
way rx»ns, 
Now  in,  now  out;  gray  trunks  of  ancient 

trees 
Barred  with  soft  shadow-bands,  where  falls 

the  sun's 
Ray  slantwise  through  the  wood,  and  on 

the  breeze 

Rising  and  flutt'ring,  rustling  light, 
The  dry  brown  leaves  make  answer,  as  the 

sight 

Of  so  much  life  renewed  spoke  hopefully — 
A  green  youth  yet  for  them  which  should 
not  die ! 

Here  is  a  space  cleared  by  the  woodman's 

arm. 

We  two  will  rest  awhile,  and  lying  low 
Under  this  beech  tree,  nigh  a  budding  palm 
Thick   set  with   silver  bloom,  note   idly 

how 

Each  tree  is  redd'ning  to  the  Spring, 
Who  soon  a  tender  cloud  of  green  will  fling 
Over  these  twigs,  athwart  this  tracery 
Of  slender  boughs  seen  black  against  the 

sky. 

9 

No  noises  from  the  town  can  vex  us  here, 
But  softened  by  long  distance  comes  the 

shrill 
Sound  of  sharp  plows ;  and,  far  away,  the 

clear 

Soft  whistle  of  a  woodman ;  further  still 
Falls  from  an  upland  farm  the  bleat 
Of  new-born  lambs;   and  mournful   now, 
but  sweet, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


A  ring-dove  in  a  twisted  thorn  hard  by 
Tempers  earth's  joy  with  her  sad  monodv. 

Though  gray  the  thorn  is  still,  that  soon 

will  be 
White  with  soft  bloom  ;  though  mute  the 

nightingale; 
Though  not  a  primrose  or  anemone 

Has  ventured  to  put  forth  a  blossom  pale; 
Yet  does  this  sight  of  white  clouds  fleet 
Across  the  sky,  and  all  those  sounds  that 

greet 
Our    eager   souls   thirsting   for   summer's 

tune, 
Thrill  us  with  promise  of  the  coming  June. 

Now    sing    with   your    low    fluted    voice, 

while  I 

Lie  with  closed  eyes,  and  fancy  all  around 

Are  summer's  dreamy  songs,  and  greenery 

On  these  poor  leafless  trees,  and  all  the 

ground 

Purple  with  scented  orchis  flowers, 
And  the  world  young  again,  and  all  time 

ours 

To  do  great  works  in — I,  wise,  great  of  fame, 
And  you — ah !  you  alone  I  'd  keep  the  same. 


(The  Wife  sings.) 

The  day  breaks  and  the  throstle  sings, 
The  joyful  lark  has  spread  his  wings ; 
The  whole  green  world  thrills  to  his  tune, 
And  wakes  to  greet  this  day  of  June! 
Wake,  love!  rejoice! 

Drops  hang  on  everv  hedgerow  leaf, 
They  shine  like  tears  of  happy  grief. 
The  daisy  cups  are  fringed  with  dew 
As  your  eyes  when  I  say  "  Adieu !  " 
Oh!  sing,  sweet  voice! 

A  new  bud  on  your  Provence  rose, 

Since    last   night's    ling'ring   through  the 

close, 

Hangs  down  a  loosened  woodbine  trail 
And  for  your  window  makes  a  veil! 
Dear  eyes,  shine  through ! 


There  sing  upon  the  hawthorn  bush 
The  bold  blackbird  and  sweeter  thrush. 
The  rolling  clouds  leave  heaven  blue, 
The  eager  sun  but  waits  for  you! 
Waits,  love,  for  you! 


(The  Husband  speaks.) 

Dear  voice,  cease  not;  even  the  round-eyed 

dove 

Is  silent,  listening  to  your  sweeter  note. 
And  I  could  listen  ever,  knowing  love 
Is  only  grown,  since  first  those  words  I 

wrote. 

Grown,  but  not  changed,  unless  it  be 
To  take  a  nobler  form ;  for  now  I  see 
How  year  by  year  my  love  has  rooted  been 
In  deeper  ground  than  youth  and  beauties 

seen! 


IN  THE  MEADOW. 

Here  is  an  idle  rhyme  to  make  you  smile, 
Or  sigh,  perhaps,  if  truth  it  seem  to  fold. 

Sit  here  and  read  it,  but  believe  the  while, 
I  love  so  well,  to  me  you'll  ne'er  be  old. 


A  painter  to  his  wife  one  day : 
This  sunset  hour  brings  back  to  me, 

I  know  not  why,  the  radiant  day, 
When  first  my  love  you  vowed  to  be. 

Go,  then ;  put  on  that  very  gown, 

And  hold  these  cowslips  in  your  hand-, 

And  let  your  hair  flow  rippling  down, 
That  once  more  I  may  see  you  stand. 

A  shy  surprise  in  your  blue  eyes, 
And  on  your  lips  a  dawning  smile, 

The  smile  at  my  wild  words.     Surprise 
That  I  could  doubt  vour  love  a  while. 


i66 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Ah!  so;  just  so!  and  yet — alas! 

Though  sweeter  since  is  grown  your  face, 
Though  dearer  every  day  we  pass, — 

I  miss  a  bloom,  a  vanished  grace. 

Yes,  vain  it  is  in  summer's  prime 
To  seek  the  buds  of  April's  day. 

For  time  is  passing ! Ah !  not  Time ! 

'T  is  we,  my  love,  who  pass!  away ! 


Sad   words,   but   true!    So  says  your  face 

grown  grave, 
As  slow   your  eyes  have  travelled  o'er 

the  page. 
Sad   thoughts!  which   seem  to  mock  this 

sunshine  brave. 

Such  April  morns,  what's  Time  to  us,  or 
Age? 

Are  we  not  happy,  rich  in  hope  and  love, 
Having    our    youth   together,   and    one 

heart, 

One  mind  and  will  between  us,  God  above: 
His  sunshine  round  about  us;  and  fair 
Art. 

To  serve  with  reverent  hands?  Look  up 
again, 

And  chase  the  gravity  from  eyelids  wet; 
Let  us  be  gay  as  yestermorn—  for  vain 

And  idle  is  such  fanciful  regret! 


BY  THE  RIVER. 
(The  Wife  speaks.) 

Oh !  to  be  idle  one  long  day ! 

When  spring  is  almost  over; 
And  these  great  giants  gaunt  and  gray 

Are  green ;  when  roundhead  clover 

And  purple  thyme-tufts  fill  the  air, 
And  fields  are  gay  with  daisies ; 

When,  blushing,  dies  the  hawthorn  fair 
Just  as  your  Poet  praises.     ' 


When  overhead  the  lark's  far  song, 
And  thrushes  in  the  hedgerows, 

And  hidden  linnets  piping  long 
Where  rank  the  river  sedge  grows. 

Oh !  to  be  idle  one  spring  day, 
To  muse  in  wood  or  meadow; 

Glide  down  this  river  'twixt  the  play 
Of  sun  and  trembling  shadow! 

I  'd  see  all  wonders  'neath  the  stream, 
The  pebbles  and  vext  grasses; 

I  'd  lean  across  the  boat  and  dream 
As  each  scene  slowly  passes. 

The  tide  should  ripple  welcomes  low 
And  dance  the  kingcups  bravely 

And  flags  in  purple  stately  bow 
And  nod  the  tall  reeds  gravely. 

I  'd  rest  an  hour  the  willows  by 

And  say  a  prayer  in  pity, 
For  all  who  stifle,  groan  and  die, 

This  day  in  crowded  city. 


IV. 


SUNSET. 

(The  Wife  speaks.) 

Sitting  once  in  the  twilight 

I  watched  the  fire-flare 
Red  glowing,  and  suddenly  bright'ning 

Upon  your  face  and  hair. 

It  gave  strange  light  and  shadow, 

An  unfamiliar  look ; 
I  had  to  learn  you  over  again 

Bending  over  your  book. 

But  when  you  broke  the  silence, 
And  read  those  burning  words 

Great  poets  have  spent  themselves  to  write, 
My  heart  leapt  up  towards 

And  to  your  voice  made  answer, 
Which,  like  a  wail  of  pain, 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


767 


Or  autumn  winds  in  swaying  trees 
Did  rise  and  fall  again, 

And  rise;  inspired  by  passion — 

By  passion,  hope,  or  dread — 
You  seemed  a  poet  then,  and  I 

Forgot  you  only  read. 

Then,  turning  o'er  the  pages, 

You  read  a  song  I  knew ; 
'Twas  then  the  present  vanished; 

There  was  nor  I,  nor  you, 

But  a  little  child  in  a  garden, 

Reading  with  puzzled  air 
An  old  hand-written  volume, 

Finding  those  verses  there. 

For  years  'tween  tarnished  covers 

That  passion-song  nad  lain: 
The  hand  that  wrote  it  slept  beneath 

Two  purple  lilac's  rain. 

And  as  you  read,  I  loitered 

Under  the  shade  of  trees, 
And  smelt  the  fragrant  lavender 

Swayed  by  the  humming  bees. 

Child-like,  again  I  wondered 

What  meant  such  sad,  sore  grief, 

And  why  the  dead  hand  wrote  that  song, 
Marking  against  the  leaf 

A  cross,  and  a  date  forgotten, 

In  pale  and  faded  ink, — 
I  could  almost  feel  the  summer  wind 

Fresh  from  the  river  brink ! 

You  paused . .  "Well,  there  's  the  song,  love ! 

You  like  it?  "     Ah!   then  fled 
My  dreams.     I  answered :  ".Forgive  me,  I 

Heard  not  a  word  you  read !  " 

But  that  this  bright  eve's  glory 

May  live  again  some  day, 
Read  me  aloud  some  stirring  story 

Or  poet's  sad,  sweet  lay. 


(The  Husband  speaks.) 

There  in  that  leaf  we  shut  it, 

An  embalmed  happiness! 
Now   homewards,   wife.      Has  there  been 

melody ! 
To-day?    True  eyes,  confess. 

—A.  L.  B. 


MY  HARVEST  "EVE." 

0  FOR  the  glory  of  harvest  time ! 

1  sing  it  in  song  and  sing  it  in  rhyme. 
With   blush   of   the  beauteous    summer's 

prime 

On  its  dewy  dawns, 
And  its  hazy  morns, 
And  gathered  grainage  of  golden  corns. 

0  for  the  glory  of  harvest  time! 

1  weave  it  in  song  and  sing  it  in  rhyme, 
While  happy  hours  their  passage  chime; 

And  every  breath 
So  softly  saith 

"  There  's  life  new  born  with  the  summer's 
death." 

O  for  the  glory  of  golden  noon, 

And  purpled  heather,  and  ripened  bloom, 

And  full-orbed  splendor  of  harvest  moon — 

The  dangerous  moon, 

That  fades  s«  soon 
From  starry  splendor  to  starless  gloom ! 


Oh  for  the  peerless  face  that  shines 
Out  from  the  lattice  beyond  the  limes! 
Harvest  queen  of  my  harvest  time, 
How  shall  I  praise  her  in  song  or  rhyme, 

With  her  tangled  tresses 

And  eyes  divine? 

I  '11  set  her  amidst  the  ripened  sheaves, 
Or  golden  glory  of  burnished  leaves : 
Flowers  and  fruits  in  the  autumn  eves, 
Fairest  "Eve"  of  them  all  is  she — 

My  harvest  queen 

From  o'er  the  lea! 


i68 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


O  for  the  lady  of  brow  serene! 
How  shall  I  praise  her,  the  manor  queen, 
With  the  ebon  gloss  on  her  ringlets  sheen? 
Never  a  tangled  tress  is  seen, 
Nor  saucy  eyes  to  dance  and  gleam. 
Like  eyes  that  dazzle  my  rhymes,  I 
ween. 

O  for  a  heart  to  shrine  them  both ! 

Either  to  lose  or  leave  I  'm  loth, 

For  love  has  grown  with  the  harvest  growth. 

O  gathered  grain, 

Know  you  this  pain? 
Can  severed  ties  be  blent  again  ? 

The  grain  is  gathered,  shadows  fall 
O'er  land  and  lea  like  sombre  pall; 
My  heart  and  I  are  still  in  thrall; 

Your  eyes  will  shine 

Starlike  to  mine, 
My  Eve,  for  every  harvest  time? 

—RITA. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

BEFORE  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  future  give 

Color  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  I  peril  all  for  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 
As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dream  > 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe. 

I'ntouched,  unshared  by  mine? 
It  -o.  at  anv  pain  or  cost, 
O,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost! 


Look  deeper  still :  if  thou  canst  feel, 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kepf  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole, 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still? 
Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 
My  whole  life  wither  and  decay.    . 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit  change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone, — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thy  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

And  answer  to  my  claim, 
That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake, — 

Not  thou, — had  been  to  blame? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus;  but  thou 
Wilt  surely  warm  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not, — I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So  comfort  thee  my  fate : 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  tall 

Remember,  I  ivonld  risk  it  all ! 

— ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 


SONNETS. 

WHEN  I  do  count  the  clock   that  tells  the 

time. 
And    see    the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous 

night; 

When  I  behold  the  violets  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silvered  o'er  with  white; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And    Summer's   green    all    girded    up    in 

sheaves, 


A    WOMAN S    QUESTION. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


171 


•Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly 

beard ; 

Then,  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must 

g°. 
Since  sweets   and  beauties  do  themselves 

forsake, 

And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow; 
And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can 

make  defence, 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him,  when  he  takes 
thee  hence. 


SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate ; 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of 

May. 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a 

date. 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed, 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course, 

untrimmed; 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his 

shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can 

see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to 

thee. 


So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  Muse, 
Stirred  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse; 
Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use, 
And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse ; 
Making  a  compliment  of  proud  compare, 
With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's 

rich  gems, 
With    April's    first-born    flowers,   and   all 

things  rare 
That   heaven's  air   in    this   huge   rondure 

hems. 


Oh  let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write, 
And  then  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 
As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 
As  those  gold  candles  fixed  in  heaven's  air: 

Let  them  say  no  more  that  like  of  hear- 
say well ; 

I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. 


LET  those  who  are  in  favor  with  their  stars, 
Of  public  honor  and  proud  titles  boast; 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumphs 

bars; 

Unlooked-for  joy  in  that  I  honor  most. 
Great    princes    favorites  their   fair  leaves 

spread, 

But  as  the  marigold,  at  the  sun's  eye; 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 
The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 
After  a  thousand  victories  once  foiled, 
Is  from  the  book  of  honor  rased  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled. 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  beloved, 
Where  I  may  not  remove  nor  be  removed. 


WHEN  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 

cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,- and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possessed, 
Desiring   this   man's  art,  and  that  man's 

scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet     in    these     thoughts    myself   almost 

despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate. 
For    thy  sweet  love   remembered   such 

wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change   my  state 

with  kings. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


WHEN    to    the    sessions    of   sweet  silent 

thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And   with    old    woes    new   wail    my   dear 

time's  waste. 

Then,  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
•For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless 

night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancelled 

woe, 
And  moan  th'  expense  of  many  a  vanished 

sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  of  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before : 
But  if   the   while   I    think   on   thee,  dear 

friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrow  ends. 


THY  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts, 
Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead; 
And  there  reigns  love,  and  all  love's  loving 

parts, 
And    all    those   friends   which   I  thought 

buried. 

How  manv  a  holy  and  obsequious  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stol'n  from  mine 

eye, 

As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 
Hut  things  removed,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie ! 
Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth 

live, 

Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  'did  give; 
That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone: 
Their  images  I  loved  I  view  in  thee, 
And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 


FULL  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign 

eye, 
Kiting    with   golden    face    the    meadows 

green, 


Gilding    pale    streams   with    heavenly  al- 
chemy ; 

Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace. 
Even  so  my  sun  one  earlv  morn  did  shine, 
With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from 

me  now. 
Yet  him   for  this  my  love  no  whit  dis- 

daineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  mav  stain,  when  heav- 
en's sun  staineth. 


WHY  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous 

day, 
And   make   me   travel   forth  without   my 

cloak, 

To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke? 
'T  is  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud 

thou  break, 

To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face, 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak, 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the 

disgrace ; 
Nor  can    thy  shame   give   physic   to  my 

grief— 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still   the 

loss: 

Th1  offender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To    him    that   bears  the    strong    offence's 

cross. 
Ah,  but  those  tears  are  pearl,  which  thv 

love  sheds, 
And    they   are   rich,  and  ransom  all  ill 

deeds. 


WHAT  is  your  substance,  whereof  .are  you 

made, 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you 

tend  ? 

Since  everv  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


173 


Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new: 
Speak  of  the  spring,  and  foison  of  the  year — 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear; 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 

In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part; 

But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant 
heart. 


OH,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous 

seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth 

give ! 

The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses — 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds 

discloses; 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show; 
They  live  unwooed,  and  unrespected  fade, 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors 

made: 
And   so   of  you   beauteous  and  lovely 

youth, 
When  that   shall  fade,  my  verse  distils 

your  truth. 


NOT  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of   princes,   shall    outlive    this    powerful 

rhyme, 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these 

contents  . 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  slut- 
tish time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  works  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  war'sr  quick  fire 

shall  burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 


'Gainst-death  and  all  oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth:  your  praise  shall  still 

find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity, 
That   wear   this   world  out  to  the  ending 

doom. 

So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You    live  in   this,   and   dwell  in  lover's, 
eyes. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HOPE. 

Is  there,  when  the  winds  are  singing 

In4he  happy  summer  time — 
When  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 
With  earth's  music  heavenward  springing, 

Forest  chirp,  and  village  chime — 
Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 
Unsighingly,  a  single  note 
Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild, 
As  the  laughter  of  a  child? 

Listen !  and  be  now  delighted  : 

Mo^n  hath  touched  her  golden  strings ; 
Earth  and  Sky  their  vows  have  plighted ; 
Life  and  Light  are  reunited, 

Amid  countless  carollings; 
Yet,  delicious  as  they  are. 
There  's  a  sound  that 's  sweeter  far — 
One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 
More  than  all, — the  human  voice! 

Organ  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 
Though  it  be  a  stranger's  tone — 
Than'  the  winds  or  waters  dearer. 
More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 

For  it  answereth  to  his  own 
But,  of  all  its  witching  words, 
Those  are  sweetest,  bubbling  wild 
Through  the  laughter  of  a  child. 

Harmonies  from  time-touched  towers, 

Haunted  strains  from  rivulets, 
Hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers, 
Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers, — 
These,  ere  long,  the  ear  forgets ; 


'74 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


But  in  mine  there  is  a  sound 
Ringing  on  the  whole  year  round— 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I  heard 
Ere  my  child  could  speak  a  word. 

Ah !  't  was  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 
Fondlier  formed  to  catch  the  strain — 

Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer — 

Hers,  the  mother,  the  endurer 
Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain; 

Hers  the  deepest  bliss  to  treasure 

Memories  of  that  cry  of  pleasure; 

Hers  to  hoard,  a  life-time  after, 

Echoes  of  that  infant  laughter. 

'T  is  a  mother's  large  affection 

Hears  with  a  mysterious  sense — 
Breathings  that  evade  detection, 
Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflexion, 

Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood's  honeyed  words  untaught 
Hiveth  she  in  loving  thought — 
Tones  that  never  thence  depart; 
For  she  listens — with  her  heart. 

LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 


FLEURETTE. 

WE  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut-tree 

In  infancy  we  played; 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  friends  together, — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now? 

We  have  been  gay  together ; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing, 

Warm  and  joyous,  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow 
We  have  been  gay  together, — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now? 


We  have  been  sad  together, — 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slum- 
bered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  sad  together, — 

O,  what  shall  part  us  now? 
CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HEART. 

WHEN  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and 

fond, 
My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest 

treasure, 
My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 

All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure; 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy 

years, 

And  natural  pietv  that  leaned  to  heaven ; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 

Yet     patient     to     rebuke    when    justly 

given — 

Obedient — easy  to  be  reconciled — 
And  meekly  cheerful ;  such  wert  thou,  my 
child"! 

Not  willing  to  be  left — still  by  my  side, 
Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day 

was  dying; 
Nor  leaving  in   thy    turn,  but   pleased    to 

glide 
Through  the  dark   room   where   I   was 

sadly  lying; 

Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  fevered 

cheek. 

O  boy !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 

Earth's  fragile  idols,  like  a  tender  flower, 
No  strength  in  all  thy  freshneo,  prone  to 
fade, 


FLEURKTTE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRJ    AND  SONG. 


And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder- 
shower; 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thj  heart  found  force 
to  bind, 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the 
v/ind ! 

Then  THOU,   my  merry  love — bold  in  thy 

glee, 
Under    the  bough,   or  by   the   firelight 

dancing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free — 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing 

glancing, 

Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 
Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened 

earth ! 

Thine  was  the  shout,  the  song,  the  burst  of 

j°y, 

Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lips 

resoundeth; 
Thine  was   the  eager  spirit  naught  could 

cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief 

reboundeth ; 

And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
Lurked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye. 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to   win  and 

bless, 

The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness 
warming; 

The    coaxing    smile  —  the    frequent    soft 

caress — 

The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  dis- 
arming! 

Again  my  heart  a  new  aftection  found, 

But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had 
reached  its  bound. 

At  length  THOU  earnest — thou,  the  last  and 

least, 
Nick-named    "the    Emperor"    by    thy 

laughing  brothers — 

Because  a  haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast, 
And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the 

others — 

Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 


And  oh!  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou! 
An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  schem- 
ing! 

Fair  shoulders — curling   lips — and   daunt- 
less brow — 

Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's 
dreaming; 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 

And   the   firm   bearing   of   thy   conscious 
tread. 

Different  from  both !  yet  each   succeeding 

claim 

I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswear- 
ing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same ; 
Nor  injured  either  by  this  love's  compar- 
ing, 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call — 
But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for 
all! 

CAROLINE  NORTON. 


LOVE. 

LOVE?  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is  to  love? 
It  is  to  build  with  human  thoughts  a  shrine. 
Where  Hope  sits  brooding  like  a  beauteous 

dove, 
Where  Time    seems   young,   and   Life  a 

thing  divine. 

All  tastes,  all  pleasures,  all  desires  combine 
To  consecrate  this  sanctuary  of  bliss. 
Above,  the  stars  in  cloudless  beauty  shine ; 
Around,  the  streams  their  flowery  margins 

kiss; 
And  if  there 's  heaven  on  earth,  that  heaven 

is  surely  this. 

Yes,  this  is  Love,   the   steadfast  and   the 

true, 

The  immortal  glory  which  hath  never  set; 
The  best,  the  brightest  boon  the  heart  e'er 

knew: 

Of  all  life's  sweets  the  very  sweetest  yet! 
O!  who  but-can  recall  the  eve  they  met 
To  breathe,  in  some  green  walk,  their  first 

young  vow? 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


While    summer    flowers    with   moonlight 
dews  were  wet, 

And  winds  sighed  soft  around  the  moun- 
tain's brow, 

And  all    was   rapture    then  which    is   but 
memory  now ! 

CHARLES  SWAIX. 


CHRISTINE. 

I  LOVED  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 

I  checked  him  while  he  spoke:  yet  could 
he  speak, 

Alas !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  a'l  mv  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love  could  he  but  live 
Who   lately   lived    for    me,   and    when   he 
found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  \\eep 
Tears  that  had   melted   his   soft  heart:  for 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears ! 
^•Merciful  God !  "  such  was  his  latest  praver, 

"These  may  she  never  share!" 
Quieter  in  his  breath,  his  breath  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mold, 
Where  children  spell   athwart  the  church- 
yard gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ve  be, 

And  O,  pray,  too,  for  me ! 

— WALTER  SAVACJI:  LAXDOR. 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as 

yet  'tis  early  morn — 
Leave  me  here,  and  when   vou  war.t  me, 

sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 


'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old, 

the  curlews  call. 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland,  flying 

over  Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  over- 
looks the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 

ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 

to  the  west. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising 
through  the  mellow  shade, 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in 
a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wandered,  nourish- 
ing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long 
result  of  time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruit- 
ful land  reposed; 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 
promise  that  it  closed ; 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human 

eye  could  see — 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be. 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 
the  robin's  breast; 

In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  him- 
self another  crest; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the 

burnished  dove; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 


CHUISTINE. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


181 


And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me; 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 

being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 

color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 

northern  night. 

And  she  turned — her  bosom  shaken  with  a 

sudden  storm  of  sighs — ' 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 

of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong;" 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?" 
weeping,  "  I  have  loved  thee  long." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  turned 

it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in 

golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might; 

Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling, 
passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 

hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with 

the  fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we 

watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our   spirits  rushed    together   at    the 

touching  of  the  lips. 

O   my   cousin,   shallow-hearted!     Oh  my 

Amy,  mine  no  more! 
Oh  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !     Oh  the 

barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than 

all  songs  have  sung — 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewish  tongue! 


Is  it  well   to  wish   thee   happy? — having 

known  me;  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower 

heart  than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shall  lower  to  his  level 

day  by  day, 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to 

sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;   thou  art 

mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 

weignt  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 

have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something    better   than   his   dog,   a   little 

dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy — think 
not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him ;  it  is  thy  duty — kiss  him ;  take 
his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain 

is  overwrought — 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 

him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 

to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though  I 

slew  thee  with  my  hands. 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from 

the  heart's  disgrace, 
Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in 

a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 

the  strength  of  youth ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 

honest  nature's  rule! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened 

forehead  of  the  fool ! 


182 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG. 


Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster! — 
Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved, 

Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which 

bears  but  oitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my 

heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never!  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-wintered  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home* 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records 

of  the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her, 

as  I  knew  her,  kind? 

I  remember  one  that  perished ;  sweetly  did 

she  speak  and  move; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 

at  was  to  love. 

Can   I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 

for  the  love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly  ;  love  is  love 

for  evermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorned  of  devils!  thic 
is  truth  the  poet  sings, 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remem- 
bering happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest 

thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,  and  when  the 

rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams;  and  thou 

art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and 

the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  point- 
ing to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 


Thou  shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whis- 
pered by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 

kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn    thee,  turn  thee  on   thy  pillow;  get 

thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a 

tender  voice  wiD  cry ; 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  tnine;  a  lip  to  drain 

thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh   me  down ;  my  latent 

rival  brings  thee  rest — 
Baby    fingers,    waxen    touches,   press    me 

from  the  mother's  breast. 

Oh,  the  child,  too,  clothes  the  father  with  a 

dearness  not  his  due; 
Half  is  thine,  and   half  is   his — it  will  be 

worthy  of  the  two. 

Oh,  I  see  thee,  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 

petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 

down  a  daughter's  heart: 

"They  were  dangerous  guides,  the  feel- 
ings— she  herself  was  not  exempt — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered." — Perish 
in  thy  self-contempt! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet— be  happy!  where- 
fore should  I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I 
wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  light- 
ing upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors;  all  the 

markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that 

which  I  should  do? 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


'83 


I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the 

fbeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in   vapor,  and 

the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the 

hurt  that  honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling 

at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in   sadness?   I  will  turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou 

wondrous  mother-age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt 

before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 

tumult  of  my  life; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the 
coming  years  would  yield — 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 
his  father's  field, 

And    at    night   along  the  dusky  highway 

near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring 

like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 

before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 

the  throngs  of  men — 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 

reaping  something  new: 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of 

the  things  that  they  shall  do; 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  as  far  as  human 

eye  could  see — 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be — 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argo- 
sies of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costlv  bales — 


Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rained  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nation's  airy  navies  grappling  in 
the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
through  the  thunder  storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and 
the  battle-flags  were  furled 

In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of 
the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt 
in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumphed,  ere  my  passion  sweeping 

through  me,  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  a  palsied  heart,  and  left  me 

with  the  jaundiced  eye — 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things 

here  are  out  of  joint. 
Silence  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping 

on  from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 

creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind 

a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with 
the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest 

of  his  youthful  joys, 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  boat 

for  ever  like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers;  and 

I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world 

is  more  and  more. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Knowledge  blinds,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 

he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience  moving  toward  the 

stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sound- 
ing on  the  bugle  horn — 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a 
target  for  their  scorn ; 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such 

a  mouldered  string? 
I  am  ashamed  through  all  my  nature  to 

have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness! 
woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bound- 
ed in  a  shallower  brain ; 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  pas- 
sions, matched  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  noth- 
ing. Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat 

Where   in   wi!d    Mahratta-battle    fell   my 

father,  evil-starred ; 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish 

uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to 
wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gate- 
ways of  the  day — 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow 
moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  clus- 
ter, knots  of  Paradise 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an 

European  flag — 
Slides   the   bird    o'er    lustrous   woodland, 

droops  the  trailer  from  the  crag — 


Droops  the  heavy-blossomed  bower,  hangs 

the  heavy-fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 

spheres  of  sea. 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment  more 
than  in  this  march  of  mind — 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer, 
shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall 
rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,    supple-sinewed,    they    shall 

dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl 

their  lances  in  the  sun. 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the 
rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  mis- 
erable books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!   but  I 

know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 

the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of 

our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 

beast  with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me 

were  sun  or  clime? 
I,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 

files  of  time — 

I,  that  rather  held   it  better  men  should 

perish  one  by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  For- 
ward let  us  range ; 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the 
ringing  grooves  of  change. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


'85 


Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay. 

Mother-age,  (for  mine  I  knew  not,)  help 

me  as  when  life  begun — 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 

lightnings,  weigh  the  sun — 

Oh,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

hath  not  set ; 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through 

all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell 

to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 

for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blacken- 
ing over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or 
hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea- 
ward, and  I  go. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

THE  play  is  done — the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task ; 

And,  when  he 's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that 's  any  thing  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends — 
Let 's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme; 

And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friend>. 
As  fits  the  merrv  Christmas  time; 


On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play; 

Good-night! — with  honest  gentle  hearts 
A  kindly  greeting  go  alway! 

Good-night!— I  'd  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age; 
I  'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys — 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys; 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift—- 
The prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift; 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown. 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave ! 
Why   should  your   mother,   Charles,   not 
mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 
We  bow  to  heaven  that  willed  it  so, 
.    That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That 's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit — 
Who  brought  him    to    that    mirth   and 
state? 

His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 
Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 

Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 
To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRY  AND  SONG, 


Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel, 
Confessing  heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear     hopes,     dear     friends,     untimely 

killed— 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen! — whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  old  and  young  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  awful  will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays;) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christinas  days; 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 

WOODMAN*,  spare  that  tree! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  rne, 

And  I  '11  protect  it  now. 


'T  was  my  forfather's  hand 
That  placed  it  near  his  cot; 

There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 
Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties; 
O,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies! 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand! 

My  heart  strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild  bird  sine, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree!  the  stoim  still  brave! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 
While  I  Ye  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH. 

The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall, 
The   holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak 

wall ; 
And  the  Baron's  retainers  were  blithe  and 

gay, 

And  keeping  their  Christmas  holiday. 
The  Baron  beheld  with  a  father's  pride 
His  beautiful  child,  young  Lovell's  bride: 
While  she  with  her  bright  eyes  seemed  to 

be 
The  star  of  the  goodly  company. 


THK    MISTLETOE    BOUGH. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


"I'm  weary  of  dancing  now,"  she  cried; 
1  Here  tarry  a  moment, — I  Ml  hide,  I  Ml  hide  ! 
And,  Lovell,  be  sure,  thou'rt  first  to  trace 
The  clew  to  my  secret  lurking-place  " 
Away  she  ran — and  her  friends  began 
Each  tower  to  search,  and  each  nook  to 

scan; 
And  young  Lovell  cried,  "  O,  where  dost 

thou  hide? 
I  'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my  own  dear 

bride." 

They    sought    her   that   night,  and    they 

sought  her  next  day, 
And  they  sought  her  in  vain  when  a  week 

passed  away, 
In   the   highest,   the   lowest,  the  loneliest 

spot, 
Young  Lovell  sought  wildly, — but  found 

her  not, 

And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last 
Was  told  as  a  sorrowful  tale  long  past, 
And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  children 

cried, 
"  See !    the   old  man   weeps   for   his   fairy 

bride." 

At  length  an  oak  chest  that  had  long  laid 

hid, 
Was  found  in  the  castle, — they  raised  the 

lid, 

And  a  skeleton  form  lay  mouldering  there 
In  the  bridal  wreath  of  that  lady  fair! 
O,  sad  was  her  fate! — in  sportive  jest 
She  hid  frorn  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest. 
It  closed    with    a    spring! — and    dreadful 

doom, 
The  bride  lay  clasped  in  her  living  tomb! 

THOMAS  HAYXES  BAYLY. 


TO  PERILLA. 

AH,  my  Perilla!  dost  thou  grieve  to  see 
Me,  day  by  day,  to  steal  away  from  thee? 
Age  calls  me  hence,  and  my  gray  hairs  bid 

come. 
And  haste  away  to  mine  eternal  home; 


'T  will  not  not  be  long,  Perilla,  after  this 
That  I  must  give  thee  the  supremest  kiss. 
Dead  when   1  am,  first  cast   in   salt,   and 

bring 
Part   of    the    cream    from   that   religious 

spring, 
With  which,  Perilla,  wash  my  hands  and 

feet; 
That  done,   then   wind   me   in   that  very 

sheet 
Which  wrapped  thy  smooth  limbs    when 

thou  didst  implore 

The  gods'  protection,  but  the  night  before; 
Follow  me  weeping  to  my  turf,  and  there 
Let  fall  a  primrose,  and  with  it  a  tear. 
Then  lastly,  iet  some  weekly  strewings  be 
Devoted  to  the  memory  of  me; 
Then  shall  my  ghost  not  walk  about,  but 

keep 

Still  in  the  cool  and  silent  shades  of  sleep. 
ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIR. 

THE  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  them  told ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew 
old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king — 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told?)  when  youth 
had  quite  gone  by. 

Alas!  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 

When  one  pert  lady  said — 
"O,  Landor!  I  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright; 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now!)  a  white  hair  on  your 
head ! " 


igo 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


Another,  more  benign, 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  she  had  found 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round. 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


MEMORY. 

The  mother  of  the  muses,  we  are  taught,     • 
Is  memory,  she  has  left  me;  they  remain, 
And  shake  my  shoulder,  urging  me  to  sing 
About  the  summer  days,  my  loves  of  old. 
*•  Alas!  alas!  "  is  all  I  can  reply. 
Memory  has  left  with  me  that  name  alone, 
Harmonious  name,  which  other  bards  may 

sing, 

But  her  bright  image  in  my  darkest  hour 
Comes  back,  in  vain  comes  back,  called  or 

uncalled. 

Forgotten  are  the  names  of  visitors 
Ready  to  press  my  hand  but  yesterday ; 
Forgotten  are  the  names  of  earlier  friends 
Whose  genial  converse  and  glad  counte- 
nance 

Are  fresh  as  ever  to  mine  ear  and  eye; 
To     these,     when     I    have    written,    and 

besought 
Remembrance  of  me,  the   word   "Dear" 

alone 
Hangs  on   the  upper  verge,  and  waits   in 

vain. 

A  blessing  wert  thou,  O  oblivion, 
If  thy  stream  carried  only  weeds  away, 
But  vernal  and  autumnal  flowers  alike 
It  hurries  down  to  wither  on  the  strand, 
WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


THE  RAVEN. 

ON'CE,  upon    a    midnight  dreary,  while    I 

pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume 

of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly 

there  came  a  tapping, 


As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at 

my  chamber  door  : 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping 

at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah!  distinctly  I  remember!  it  was  in  the 
bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought 
its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  vainly  I  had 
tried  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sor- 
row for  the  lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of 
each  purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  ter- 
rors never  felt  before: 

So   that   now,   to  still  the  beating  of   my 
heart,  I  stood  repeating, 

"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitat- 
ing then  no  longer, 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  madam,  truly  your  for- 
giveness I  implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gentlv 
you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping 
at  my  chamber  door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you," — here 
I  opened  wide  the  door: 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,   long  I 

stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever 

dared  to  dream  before ; 
But   the    silence    was    unbroken,   and    the 

darkness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word   there  spoken  was  the 

whispered  word,  "  Lenore!  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured 

back  the  word  "  Lenore!  " 

Merelv  this,  and  nothing  more. 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


'9' 


Then  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul 

within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping,  somewhat 

louder  than  before : 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something 

at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this 

mystery  explore : — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this 

mystery  explore ; — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more!" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with 
many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 

In    there   stepped   a   stately   raven  of  the 
saintly  days  of  yore; 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  an  in- 
stant stopped  or  stayed  he; 

But,  with    mien   of  lord  or   lady,  perched 
above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above 
my  chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then    this   ebony    bird    beguiling  my  sad 
fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the   grave   and  stern  decorum  of   the 
countenance  it  wore; 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven — 

Ghastly,  grim  and  ancient  raven,  wander- 
ing from  the  nightly  shore — 

Tell   me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the 
night's  Plutonian  shore!  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much    I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to 

hear  discourse  so  plainly — 
Though   its   answer    little    meaning,    little 

relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 

human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above 

his  chamber  door— 7 
Bird    or   beast   upon    the    sculptured   bust 

above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 
bust,  spoke  only 


That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul   in  that  one 

word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing    farther    then    he  uttered — not   a 

feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "Other 

friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will   leave  me,  as    my 

hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so 

aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its 

only  stock  and  store — 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom 

unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his 

songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  the  melancholy 

burden  bore 

Of  '  Never — Nevermore.'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad 
soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front 
of  bird,  and  bust  and  door; 

Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook 
myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  om- 
inous bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt, 
and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermo-e." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syl- 
lable expressing 

To  the  fowl,  w  hose  fiery  eyes  now  burned 
into  my  b6som's  core ; 

This,  and  more,  I  sat  divining,  with  my 
head  at  ease  reclining, 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the 
lamplight  gloated  o'er; 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the 
lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press— ah,  never  more! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  angels,  whose  faint  foot-falls 
tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 


I92 


ILLUSTRATED  POETRT  AND  SONG. 


"Wretch!"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath   lent 
thee,  by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee, 

Respite — respite  and   nepenthe   from   thy 
memories  of  Lenore ! 

Quaft",  oh  quafl'this  kind  nepenthe,  and  for- 
get this  lost  Lenore !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  thing  of  evil! — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest 

tossed  thee  here  ashore — 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 

land  enchanted, 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me 

truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead?  tell  me — 

tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet ! "  said  T,  "  thing  of  evil !— prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by 

that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 

the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or 

fiend ! "  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 

night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that 

lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !— quit  the 

bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take 

thy  form  from  off  my  door ! " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting, 

still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my 

chamber  door; 


And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  de- 
mon's that  is  dreaming, 
And  the   lamplight,   o'er   him    streaming 

thiows  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that 
lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


SONG  OF  THE  WINDS. 

UP  the  Gale  and  down  the  bourne, 
O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  flv; 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 
Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy-fringed  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep; 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 

At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 
While  aside  her  cheek  we  're  rushing; 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass, — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain, 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  and  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we  're  at  our  play  again. 

GEORGE  DARLEV. 


